Being Human
by theDeadTree
Summary: The adventures of Scott Summers and Jean Grey as they manifest powers, attend a school for people like them, join up with a politically motivated mutant strike force, fight bigots and masters of magnetism alike, get attacked by heavily armed robots, possibly fall a little bit in love and generally grow up fighting to protect a world that continues to hate and fear them.
1. Chapter One

**Note/Disclaimer: **This is more of a mix of both the movie and comic universes than anything else, and even with that considered, it's very much my own continuity. Please don't eat me for this being in the wrong archive.

Also, if this story seems familiar, I posted it a while ago and took it down because of self-confidence issues among other things. I'm better now. I'll try to see this through to the end this time.

I don't own X-Men. Or Marvel. Especially not Marvel. No profit is being made from this, as it's a fanfiction, written purely for funsies.

* * *

Today was about a new beginning. That's I told myself over and over again as I folded my clothes neatly and placed them into the duffel bag I had waiting. Really, I should've done this years ago, but I kept finding excuses to put it off – ranging from 'I've only just recovered' to 'I can't control my telepathy' to 'I should stay away from everyone until Professor Xavier thinks it's safe for me to try to control it again' to 'my telekinesis just manifested' to 'I still need to learn how to read minds without losing my own'. Now, I don't have any more excuses. I won't allow myself to have any more excuses. I've been putting off trying to integrate back into normal human society for four and a half, nearly five years and now that I have control over my abilities, I'm well overdue for a reintroduction into society.

That's what today was about. Going back to my old friends and my old life, and seeing if it is indeed possible for humans and mutants to live side by side without trouble. I really do believe it is. I desperately want it to be…even so, I'm worried about telling people the truth. I'm scared of being out and proud as a mutant. I'm scared of what people will think of me. What my old friends will think of me.

I sighed a little but continued to telekinetically pack as I prowled around my room in search of anything I might have forgotten about or misplaced somehow. When I had doubled checked everything, I straightened, swung my bag over my shoulder and sauntered out of the room as a fresh wave of anxiety over what I was doing hit me.

What do I even say? It's been five years. I can't blame all of it on Annie's death – it's not really true and no one will believe it anyway. And as far as I know, there aren't any other mutants back home. I'll be alone, the only one of my kind in the entire county – or at least, the only outed mutant in the entire county. I'm not sure how I feel about that prospect.

A sudden change in the temperature alerted me to the ice that carpeted the hallway before it ever came into view. I let out a heavy sigh and levitated myself a couple of inches so I floated happily over it, not wanting to risk slipping and falling over. That was an embarrassment I could and would avoid.

Right on cue, Bobby skidded past me, in his full ice form. Bobby, unlike the rest of us, doesn't appear to be entirely interested by the idea of control. He never even tries to rein himself in. Then again, I don't think control and hiding were ever much of a problem for him. He looked like he was going to stop and talk to me, before rethinking it and disappearing around a corner just as Warren appeared, looking absolutely livid, his huge feathered wings that I'd always adored unfurling even though he can't reach his full wingspan in the halls – they just won't accommodate it.

He used to be so shy and insecure about his wings. I never knew why. They're beautiful. Of course, I'm slightly less inclined to think that when they're coming dangerously close to hitting me in the face because Warren frequently forgets about what's around him and the fact that his wings aren't tied down like he's used to. I'm sure running around without wearing a harness must be all kinds of liberating for him.

"I'm going to _kill_ him," he snarled, making his way past me without really acknowledging my presence. Then he too, disappeared around the same corner Bobby had.

My feet hit the ground once more the second I cleared the impromptu ice lake and I continued to make my way down the stairs to the foyer, not wanting to know what on earth Bobby had done that irritated Warren so much. I figured it was just his usual antics – Bobby likes to annoy the rest of us in as many different ways as he can. He always looks forward to the prospect of the Institute getting new students; it means more people to prank and the bigger the possible crowd to lose himself in when he inevitably gets caught.

Four – five, if you include Professor Xavier – is not really crowd. And although Professor Xavier is confident we'll gain more students as time goes on, I'm not sure there will ever be enough people here to constitute what could be called a crowd. Still. One at a time, I'm always told. It makes me wonder who the next student will be. What their powers will be like. Hopefully not another telepath. Two in one building is more than enough.

I like the Institute. It makes me feel safe, comfortable. I like it because Warren can chase a fully iced Bobby around the house with his wings out and no one bats an eyelash. I like it here because telepathic conversations are just as commonplace as those you have aloud – telepathy has essentially become the Institute's version of an intercom. I really like the Institute because it's one of the few places in the world where people don't care who you are, what you can do or what you look like. None of that stuff matters. There aren't enough places like this.

Now I'm going out into the world that is not nearly as accepting, and pretend that I somehow still belong.

I've been coming here in stints since I was eleven, since my parents agreed to let me come here to learn how to exercise some control over my abilities and avoid the disaster that took place when my telepathy first manifested. Since my telekinesis appeared when I was thirteen, I've been staying here full time.

Consequently, it's been at least two years since I last talked to or even saw any of my friends from before my life took the dramatic turn it did. Granted, I wasn't hugely popular before, but the friends I did have I was really close with.

All two of them.

Okay, that's a lie, I have more than two friends obviously, but there were two friends I was particularly close with before my powers manifested and shit hit the fan.

One of which was hit by a car and died on the street when I was ten and started this whole mess.

The other has lived next door to me since I was eight and since everything happened, has well and truly stopped trying to talk to me because, well, I was never there. I'm hoping that by coming back and engaging with life again, I can somehow rekindle the relationship we used to have.

There's just the small problem of whether or not I tell him what happened to me these past five years, or fess up about what _really_ happened to me these past five years.

So, lie and risk him not trusting me as far as he can throw me for the rest of both our lives, or tell the truth and risk him wanting to burn me at the stake because mutants are a danger to society or whatever the current argument against us is. Either way I lose a friend, unless he's really gullible or somehow not like everyone else in Western civilisation right now. The chances of either of those are slim.

I sighed. He was always reasonably intelligent, sceptical and generally the opposite of what you'd call gullible, even when we were kids, and I have no idea where he stands on the whole mutant phenomenon – and _that's _considering whether or not he even wants to talk to me in the first place. I'm totally lost on what to do.

My parents were waiting at the door for me, talking to Professor Xavier about something – probably me, since I'm the only thing they ever talk to him about. Well, me and other mutants. Mutants in general. Whether or not we all have the potential to become dangerous terrorists such as one certain metal controlling mutant, if pushed the wrong way. If it's possible to 'cure' people with an active x-gene, or supress it somehow. Luckily, I managed to get the record straight on that last one before my parents ever tried to take it up with Professor Xavier.

Discussions around a supposed x-gene suppressant or 'mutant cure' never end well in the Institute. I'd really rather avoid them completely, and save everyone the pain.

Because they can't cure us.

Because there isn't anything about us to cure. There's nothing wrong with us.

Because if people can't handle our existence, that's _their_ problem, and we shouldn't have to feel like we need to change some intrinsic part of our existence just to fit in with bigots.

Doesn't change the uncontrollable superpowers side of the whole deal. Doesn't change the fact that, despite everything, some of us hate our powers; either because they're dangerous or they're uncontrollable or for some other reason. It doesn't change the fact that some of us, despite all our cries for independence and the freedom to be what we are, just can't deal with the way people treat us anymore.

I jumped from the penultimate stair and landed neatly before almost bouncing over to my parents. I was being especially perky and excitable, maybe it was the prospect of going to a normal high school, or maybe I was just keen to see if I could still pass for normal. I saw it as some kind of experiment on myself for some unknown reason. And I figured I wouldn't have the Institute to protect me for my entire life, I might as well try to integrate with the outside world. I can't hide away in the dark forever, and I shouldn't have to anyway.

It's like Bobby says – being a mutant is like being black, or gay…but more so. Because not only are you going to be met with ridicule, hatred, and be the victim of violent hate crimes, you also have powers that can and usually do manifest uncontrollably, which is bad, especially when they're dangerous.

And to quote Robert Drake yet again;

Oh, _joy._

"Thank you for everything, again, Charles," my father farewelled Professor Xavier, taking his hand briefly while my mother nodded in agreement.

"It is my pleasure, John," Professor Xavier replied smoothly, showing that he's likeable, charming and charismatic without using his telepathy – although I'm pretty sure telepathy has had a hand in allowing him to be as ridiculously well connected as he is.

I waited for all of two seconds before grasping both my parents' wrists and practically dragging them out the door and to car, before sliding in and waiting somewhat impatiently to get going.

My father is an old associate of Professor Xavier's which, presumably, is why they're on a first name basis. Four and a half years ago, he had called the Professor out of desperation, to see if he could do anything about the fragile condition I was in at that point. As it turns out, he had been just the right person to call and my parents have trusted him and held him in high regard ever since, even if they were mildly freaked out by the prospect of their youngest daughter being a telekinetic telepath – or just a telepath at point – at first.

Finally, everyone was in the car and I was off – heading back into the grand adventure that was life on the outside of the little mutant haven I'd been living for the past few years. I didn't know what to expect, or how long it would be before I came crawling back to the Institute for whatever reason. My excitement regarding the whole thing was probably greatly misplaced, I understood that, but I couldn't contain it. When you spend your time being privately tutored with the same people day in, day out for several years, you get kind of lonely.

I was craving some semblance of normalcy. I wanted to be a teenager and do all those stupid things that normal teenagers do. Go out partying and underage drinking and who knows? Maybe even experiment with my sexuality. At this rate I'll do anything and everything your average disruptive youths do. I just have the added benefit of powers and abilities your average disruptive youths can only dream of.

It was a two hour drive back home from the Institute, and the trip was uneventful. Mom and Dad talked about the idea of me in a normal high school environment, and whether or not I'd be able to cope mentally, since I've never actually been to a real high school before. I leaned back into my seat and stared mindlessly out the window, trying to ignore the fact that they were talking about me apparently without realising that I was actually there. Maybe it was a force of habit. I'd been away so long they didn't really know how to act with me there anymore.

Thankfully though, their conversation turned in another direction.

"…talking to Chris in the park yesterday," Dad was saying. "Apparently it's not nearly as serious as they first thought, though the doctors are at a loss. They would have gotten him home by now."

"Oh thank goodness for that, Kate was so worried. Those kind of scares are dreadful."

And Mom would know, having been through the trauma of her youngest daughter going catatonic for no discernible reason for weeks on end. But their words made me worry. There is only one Chris and Kate that my parents are on friendly enough terms with to have a worried conversation about them.

My eyes narrowed and I leaned forwards. "Did something happen?"

"Nothing happened, sweetie," Mom assured me.

"Then why are you talking like someone was in the hospital?"

She looked like she wanted to dodge this question as well, but Dad, sensing just how close I was to lowering my mental guards and ransacking their minds for the information I wanted, saw no point in evading.

"Scott was having migraines," he stated flatly.

I relaxed back into my seat. "Is that all? Scott's had migraines since time immemorial."

"Apparently these were particularly bad."

My eyes narrowed. "How bad?"

"Bad enough to land him in hospital, it appears."

That worried me. That really, seriously worried me.

"Is he okay?"

"Jean," Mom called my name softly. "You shouldn't let it bother you."

"But is he _okay?"_ I demanded, not at all placated. "What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing is wrong with him Jean," my father told me gently. "He's absolutely fine."

And that was it, end of the conversation. I returned my attention to the scenery that passed by, blurring into one big incoherent mess of colour. I watched the world go by, and for the first time in who knows how long, I thought about Scott.

His family had moved in next door to us something like seven years ago now. We had gone over to greet the new neighbours and since he and I were the same age we got talking. They came from Anchorage, which seemed to me like some mystical place a world away. His father, Christopher, had been a pilot in the Air Force. Something had happened, some kind of plane accident, and they moved to our area in an attempt to start over. Scott idolised his father in every way a child can. He had a younger brother, Alex, and after not too long, another younger brother called Gabriel. He was an adamant introvert, so blatantly asocial it's hard to know how he managed to function as a human being, failed to be in any way expressive and was so prone to headaches of varying severity that I wasn't sure he'd lived a day in his life with a genuinely clear head.

He had also always been rather tall and lanky for his age, so much so it had led to the ever frequently used nickname of Slim. He'd always hated being called that, by anyone, ever. I, on the other hand, thought it suited him perfectly. We had been so different, even back then. Somehow, impossibly, we found some common ground and became surprisingly good friends in an amazingly short space of time.

We just sort of…clicked. Somehow, despite being almost complete opposites. I guess a part of me found his awkward behaviour and failed attempts at holding a conversation with another person sort of endearing.

And then everything happened. Annie died, I went catatonic, developed telepathy and disappeared off to Westchester for increasingly long stints for a couple of years before I started spending the entire school year there, only sporadically coming home for occasional holidays. He tried to keep in touch for a while at the beginning, but eventually came to stop talking to me completely.

Now I'm back. And now he's been in the hospital because the headaches he's been suffering from the entire time I've known him have gotten that bad. And now, despite the fact that we haven't spoken for years, I can't help but worry for him.

Last time I saw him we were eleven.

That was four years ago.

After so long, I'm not sure he'll even _want_ to talk to me.

But _I_ want to talk to _him._ I miss him. I do. I miss him and his obsession with planes and flying which persisted even though he couldn't step into an airport without having an anxiety attack. Once an Air Force brat, always an Air Force brat, I suppose. I wonder if he's over that yet. I wonder if he's grown, if I can still call him Slim without it having to be ironic.

"How old is Gabriel now?" I asked.

"Six, I think?" Dad answered.

"_Six…"_ I repeated, trying to process this. Last I saw him he was a toddler. Barely a toddler. "That makes Alex, what, thirteen?"

"Sounds right."

I leaned my head back and stared up, out of the top of back window. I don't like this whole growing up business. People aren't supposed to change that fast. Alex is just a kid. He's supposed to be that little boy who likes playing in the mud on rainy days. He can't be in his teens already.

In seemingly no time at all, Dad pulled the car into the driveway. I gazed out the window for some time, before shaking my head a little in an attempt to snap out of it, grabbing my duffel bag and getting out. Mom eyed my luggage, surprised I had so little, before following Dad up the steps to the house. I stood stock still for a moment or two, taking it all in. I wished Sara could be here, but she was off attending college. I'll call her later, I decided, once I was somewhat settled.

So much has changed without any of it changing at all. The garden is well and truly established and looks as though it has been for some time. But there are the same trees, the same houses with the same pristine emerald green lawns. So much time has passed, but you could never spot it unless you knew what to look for. Unless you could somehow tell the difference. It was easier for some things than it was for others.

"Jean?" a faintly familiar voice called my name uncertainly.

I turned on the spot to find myself facing an impossibly tall, athletic boy who appeared to be my age. I like to think I'm tall for a girl my age, but he towered over me. I smiled pleasantly at him, taking everything about his appearance in – everything, from his messy brown hair to his brown eyes to the shirt, jeans and canvas shoes he'd decided to wear today. He was…very attractive, and didn't appear to need to try in order to be that way. I'm not sure how I feel about this. My smile very quickly widened into a grin when I recognised him, suddenly hyper aware that several years had gone by.

"Hey Scott."

…wow. Puberty hit him hard.

We stood in awkward silence for what seemed like an eternity. An awful, agonising eternity in which I gaped at him, at how tall he was, how his voice had broken, and how incredibly not unattractive he was. No. No way. There is no way this guy is the dorky little socially inept Air Force brat I was friends with. He seemed to be as uncomfortable as I was, but said nothing. He probably didn't know what to say. What _do_ you say to someone you haven't seen in four years?

"You've…grown," I managed to choke out.

No kidding.

"Yeah," he replied stiffly.

I struggled to find something in any way not awkward to add to the conversation – if a few stray words between us could even be called that.

"I heard you were in the hospital."

Damn it Jean, I reprimanded myself, don't bring that up. Would you want to talk about something like your latest trip to the hospital? No. No, of course not. _Idiot._ But by the time I realised my mistake, it was too late. The words were already out of my mouth, and there was nothing I could do about it but stand there and watch him shift awkwardly as he tried to find some way to word his response delicately.

"I- uh, yeah. It's nothing."

"They said it was your migraines," I continued before I could stop myself. "That they're getting worse."

And here you'll see Jean Grey digging herself into an ever deeper hole.

His eyes narrowed. "My parents talked to your parents, didn't they?"

I shrugged innocently. He took it as confirmation.

"For the _love_ of- …does the whole freaking neighbourhood know?"

"No idea. I just got here."

"R-right. Yeah. How's…" he looked at me oddly as he tried to recall the information he needed from some dark corner of his brain, "…Westchester?"

He phrased it like a question, clearly not confident he knew what he was talking about.

"Westchester's fine."

"How long until you head back?"

"Actually, I was planning on staying here."

"O-oh," he voice shot up an octave and I couldn't discern why. "Okay. Cool."

I opened my mouth to reply only to be interrupted by my mother, who had reappeared on the front porch, wondering why I hadn't come inside yet. I don't know if she was exasperated or pleased to see who I was trying to have a normal, friendly conversation with. Surely pleased. Mom always liked Scott. But then, that was back when we were kids and Scott wasn't some super humanly attractive giant.

Good god Scott Summers, what _happened _to you these past four years?

"Jean!" she called. "Are you coming inside?"

"In a minute!" I yelled back, entirely aware that Scott was watching me with a slightly bemused expression the entire time.

We stood there, having lapsed into yet another strained silence. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we've simply drifted too far apart to repair the relationship we used to have. Maybe we're both too far gone. I was a fool to think everything would just click back into place. I didn't realise just how much people can change. After all, I'm a far cry from the girl I used to be.

"I should probably go," I mumbled.

He looked away. "Yeah. I guess…I'll see you around?"

"I guess you will. We'll be going to the same school, after all."

He didn't seem all that thrilled by the news. "Right. Yeah. Okay."

My face fell at his reaction. Is something wrong? Is it me? Doesn't he like me anymore? Does he not want to be seen with me? Is this all some weird retribution for me not being around these past five years? Does he simply not want to be friends with me anymore? Is it because I'm a mutant?

Jean, he doesn't even _know_ you're a mutant, I reminded myself for the umpteenth time.

I smiled weakly at him before turning to walk away.

"Hey, Jean?"

I twisted around to face him, eyebrows raised, saying nothing. Scott shuffled from side to side, distinctly reminding me of himself when he was nine and really wanted to say something without being sure if it was okay. I smiled a little. Maybe there's a chance to bring back that old friendship after all.

"It- it was nice seeing you again," he called out in a strangled voice.

My smile widened. "Yeah, you too."

And with that, we parted ways.


	2. Chapter Two

I was due to start school the following Monday, and I found myself in the grip of my fear of not fitting in as well I wanted to. I told myself repeatedly that there was nothing wrong with me, that I had nothing to be ashamed of, that although I was a mutant, there shouldn't be any reason for me to hide. I kept telling myself that, but found it increasingly difficult to believe. I found myself freaking out over situations I would conjure up in my head, like what would happen if my telekinesis acted up and I suddenly lost control and sent desks and chairs flying. I tried to reason with myself, maintaining that I'd been in perfect control over my abilities for some time now and there was no reason for it to suddenly go completely crazy. I tried telling myself that again and again, but I could never bring myself to fully believe that everything would be okay. Something was going to go horribly, horrifically wrong, and I would never be able to show my face here ever again.

It really wasn't worth freaking out over. I met some nice girls that seemed to want to be friends with me, and everyone was nice and perfectly cordial to me, though I didn't know why. I had resist the temptation to read their minds and find out. It's the like Professor Xavier always says, reading someone's mind without their permission is the most invasive thing you can do to them. For most people, their minds are their last sanctuary, the last place they have that is totally private. Most people aren't fans of telepaths, and you don't have to be a genius to work out why.

Of course, once I had strictly ruled out using telepathy in any way did I realise just how bad I am at reading body language. I'm too reliant on my ability to quickly scan their mind when I first meet someone and make an opinion of based off that. Without that, I found myself becoming increasingly distrustful of the people around me. It made me wonder how on earth I ever survived without telepathy.

"So, just moved here?" a nice girl called Claire that I had reason to believe genuinely liked me asked as she led me to her usual table in the cafeteria.

The question took me a little off guard. "Oh! Um, no. I've always lived here."

She looked at me with a slightly puzzled expression as she sat down. "That's strange, I haven't seen you around."

"No, you probably wouldn't have…I went to a…" I tried to think of something I could call the Institute that still sounded somewhat normal.

"A…?" she prompted when I trailed off.

"…boarding school," I finished lamely.

"Boarding school?"

"In Westchester," I added, as if that made it any more believable.

It was unlikely she had heard of the Institute, part of the point of it was that it's a safe haven for mutants, and it wouldn't be a very effective safe haven if everyone knew about it.

"Oh? Why'd you come back?"

I shrugged innocently. "I like being with my family. I was cut off from everyone when I was there."

That, and I was craving going to a school where things like random ice lakes appearing the halls at a moment's notice and trying to avoid getting knocked out by another student's massive wings and telekinetic mishaps on my part aren't considered routine, in fact, they would be considered _weird._ I wanted normal. I was craving normal. And this place, it _was_ normal. Blissfully so.

She nodded, apparently understanding. "I can respect that."

"So," I began, desperate to turn attention away from me somehow. "What about you?"

"Me?" she asked, apparently surprised I'd asked at all. "Oh, well…you know…this is the only high school I've ever been to. Personally, I can wait to get out."

"Oh?"

This small word by me was more than enough encouragement for her. In seconds, she was off, talking about college and what she wanted to do after high school, stopping occasionally to ask me a question about what I wanted to do with my future.

"What are you gushing to the new girl about now, Claire?" Another girl, one of Claire's friends, asked as she sat herself down across from me. Her name was Jess, I'm pretty sure. A quite peek into her mind confirmed this for me.

_Ethics, Jean,_ I could imagine Professor Xavier admonishing me. _Never look in a person's mind without their permission. It's common courtesy._

Doesn't stop him from flat out mind controlling people when it suits him, I argued. Supposedly he inherited his fortune and keeps it growing through clever investment, but he was a good deal less concerned with the ethics of telepathy before the Institute was a thing. Who knows how he manages to pay for everything? Besides, I was only looking for her name. It's not my fault I found her job at the local café, her interest in expressionist art, her opinion of her boyfriend and the fact that she's secretly a science fiction geek too.

…okay. Never doing that again.

Privacy and ethics and such.

Claire grinned unapologetically. "Oh, just college."

Jess rolled her eyes a little before turning to me. "She has her whole life worked out already. I don't even know how that's possible."

I managed a small smile, only to be distracted when Scott stalked past our table.

"Hey Scott!" I called out to him cheerfully, waving.

He just about jumped out of his skin and looked around wildly at the sound of his name being called. Finally his eyes came to rest on me. His mouth twitched briefly in what I _think_ was an attempt at a smile before continuing on his way to a table with his own friends. I watched him curiously, not noticing that Claire and Jess were gaping at me, their expressions that of utter shock. I only noticed them when I turned back, and immediately became self-conscious for no real reason.

"What?" I asked a little defensively.

Jess was the first snap back into reality. She shook her head a little, trying to clear it. "Oh, nothing. Do you know him?"

"Scott? He lives next door to me."

"Really?" she asked, leaning in, intrigued. "And you're friends with him."

It wasn't a question.

"How do you figure?"

"He didn't glare at you, for a start," Claire explained, while Jess suddenly became very interesting in poking mindlessly at her food. "So, do you know him well?"

My eyes narrowed. "We were pretty close when we were kids, but we haven't spoken in a long time, so I don't know."

This seemed to pique Jess' interest in the matter, and I quickly found myself getting drilled with various questions. I couldn't fathom why she was so interested. Scott didn't seem that abnormal to me. A little aloof, sure, but he had always been like that. If anything, he seemed better than he used to be. The group of guys he shared a table with seemed to be regarded as 'popular', at any rate.

That surprised me, actually. He had never been the type of person that became friends with your stereotypical popular group. That was much more up my alley. Or at least, that's what I'd thought. Apparently I was wrong.

"Why all the interest in Scott?" I asked as Jess paused for breath.

Jess shrugged innocently. "He's popular, good looking and enigmatic. Wouldn't you be curious?"

I stole a glance at Scott. He didn't seem to be having a very good time. If anything, he looked bored, completely disinterested in the world around him. It made me wonder yet again why he was hanging around with those people. He's clearly not the kind of person who would naturally click with that sort of people. I'm confused as to why he does this to himself.

"I don't think I've ever seen him act that civilly towards someone before," Claire muttered. "He must really like you, Jean."

I paled a little. I'm the only person he's been civil to? A curt nod in my direction is _civil _for him? Just how much as Scott _changed_ since I was gone?

Jess folded her arms. "Don't be ridiculous, Claire."

"What? He doesn't talk to _anyone."_

"Not talking doesn't immediately equate to rudeness."

"Do you _love_ him?"

"No. But you have to admit, the boy _is_ mouth-wateringly attractive."

Claire grinned slyly. "Don't you have a boyfriend, Jess?"

"What, I can't find other people attractive because I'm in a relationship?"

"If you find someone always looking like they're in pain _attractive."_

"You're just bitter you don't have a date."

"Funny, that. Especially since I hadn't actually planned on going in the first place."

I blinked several times. "What are you talking about?"

Jess smiled a little. "There's a dance happening in a few days. We could wrangle it so you can come, if you like."

I looked away. "No, don't bother."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'll go to the next one."

I don't want to go to huge big social event when I've barely even started at this school. It just screams awkward encounter and I'd like to avoid that as much as humanly possible.

I looked back over at Scott's table in order to distract myself. He had his head on the table, his hands resting atop his head, hiding his face from view. I recognised that posture almost immediately – it was what he did when he was suffering from a particularly vicious headache. I briefly wondered why he was at school at all, before remembering that he never made a big deal out of the things that maybe should have a big deal made out of them. Maybe I'll ask him about it after school.

Yes. Will this be before or after I tell him I'm a telekinetic telepath?

I should check on him anyway. He _was_ in the hospital recently.

Yet another reason why he probably shouldn't be at school.

Much of the day passed in that way. I'd catch Scott in the hall, or sometimes, if I was lucky, he'd be in my classes, and I'd spend the entire lesson watching him and wondering why on earth he would subject himself to something he's clearly uncomfortable with over and over again. It made no sense to me whatsoever. _He_ made no sense to me whatsoever.

Why did I have to come back only to find that life in the real world made even less sense than life in the Institute? I had to stop myself from diving into his head and trying to find the answers to my questions that way multiple times. I found myself longing to do it, and cursing myself for taking Professor Xavier's words on respecting people's privacy to heart. I can hardly ask Scott for permission to ransack his mind, and I can't ask him outright because since when did he ever give any kind of straight answer to any question that sounded even remotely personal?

Really. I don't even know his middle name.

Never before have I been so irritated about being unable to use my powers as a telepath.

I took the bus home, which was an exciting new experience for me. Mostly my reasoning behind it was that this would give me a chance to talk to Scott – something I had been trying to do all day, without much avail. It was like he was purposely avoiding me, though I couldn't for the life me work out why.

We sat in different seats, on different sides of the bus, so talking to him before the bus reached our stop was out of the question. I found myself gazing at him almost longingly, wishing I could have even a brief conversation with him. I was wishing for it so badly I almost contacted him telepathically, before stopping myself. Again.

Finally, after what seemed like far too long, the bus pulled into a grinding halt at my stop. And Scott's stop. Our stop.

He got off the bus and was off walking down the street so quickly I had to run to catch up to him.

"Hey! Scott! Wait!" I yelled, resisting the urge to drag him back to where I was with my telekinesis. It would be rude, for one thing, and doing something like that to him with no warning would also probably freak him out so badly he'll never want to speak to me again.

Thankfully though, he stopped just long enough for me reach him.

"Why are you doing this, Jean?" he asked monotonously.

"Because I live right next to you, so if I walk with you I'll have someone to talk to on the way home?" I suggested dryly.

He sighed heavily. "It's barely a five minute walk. You shouldn't need someone to talk to."

"Well Scott, maybe I _want_ to talk you."

"Funny, you haven't wanted to talk for years, why start now?"

Dammit, why is he being so aloof? He was _fine_ before. Why can't I work him out anymore? Have I become that heavily reliant on my telepathy that I can't even read basic body language?

I could look in his mind right now.

_Ethics,_ Jean.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled loudly, clearly frustrated. "Come on Jean, we haven't really spoken since Annie died. And yeah, that was tragic and awful, but it's been _five years. _You can't just suddenly snap back into life and expect everything to be the way it was."

He had a point.

As much as I didn't want to admit it, he did have a point.

We continued walking in a slightly bitter silence as I stewed on what he'd said.

Clearly, he was bitter about it all, and I couldn't really blame him. I hadn't given him anything, so I shouldn't have been surprised that he's long since lost his patience with me. I would have too, in his place.

I suppressed a groan. I can't do this anymore. I can't continue like this, with him so angry and confused about the past five years. I should tell him the truth. I owe him that much. There's no telling how he'll react, I never bothered to try and understand his view on the whole 'mutant phenomenon', as it was being increasingly referred to as. How do I know how he's going to react?

Okay no.

I need to stop being so indecisive.

Either I'm going to tell him, or I'm not. Either I have enough faith in him and our friendship, or I don't. I can't sit here and do nothing in some sad attempt to keep everything alive and intact. Life doesn't work that way.

With a heavy sigh and preparing myself for the impending destruction of a friendship I held dear, I grabbed his wrist and began to pull him towards my house.

"Wha- Jean! What are you doing?"

"There's something I have to show you."

He staggered a little as I pulled him along, through the front door of my house, up the stairs and to my room while carefully making sure that no one else was around. If Scott freaks out, I don't want other people around to witness it. When we were safe in my room I let go of him and clicked the door shut behind me, breathing deeply in an effort to calm myself. Scott stood there, watching me warily.

"Okay…should I be worried?"

I shrugged. "Just…promise me you won't freak out completely."

His chocolate brown eyes widened. _What the hell is she trying to pull?_ "Okay…worried now."

I closed my eyes and tried once more to collect myself. He's projecting. Either I'm too close to him, too in tune with his mind, or he's projecting without meaning to – of course he doesn't mean it, no one ever _means_ to project. I could use it to my advantage and show him my telepathy, but I'd already decided on my telekinesis. It's a little harder to deny, for one thing.

Resolved, I focused on a pencil that lay on my desk. It rolled back and forth before it began to rattle against the wood. Scott whipped around, trying to detect the source of the noise, only for him to look at the pencil, then at me, then back at the pencil, his expression fixed into one of absolute shock. I gritted my teeth and the pencil rose a little before flying like a bullet across the room, burying itself in the wall. Scott continued to stare at it, transfixed. I sat down, exhaling.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to move it that fast."

He turned on the spot to face me, still shocked by this revelation before managing, "I- …uh, you- you're…"

"Please don't freak out."

He stopped, biting his lip a little. "Freak out?" he asked, his voice shooting up an octave. "Who's freaking out? I'm not freaking out. Why would I be freaking out? You're telekinetic. You're a mutant. You're a telekinetic mutant. That's great. That- that's…fascinating, actually. Yeah. Really interesting. I'm not freaking out. What makes you think I'm freaking out?"

I smiled just a little. "For starters, your voice just went up an octave. Secondly, you never ramble like that unless you're seriously freaked out."

He sat down on my bed. Hard. "…suddenly the past five years make a lot more sense."

Ugh, I can't leave it at that. I have to tell him everything. I _want_ to tell him everything. I should've told him earlier. I can't believe I left him hanging for five years. I'm such a bad friend. Overcome by my guilt and remorse for abandoning him all these years, I saw no point in delaying telling him everything any more.

"That's not all."

He said nothing, just watched me with an expression that was a weird mix of wary and curiosity. I watched him for a brief second or two, taking in his ridiculously tall frame and wondering how on earth I managed to miss the entire – apparently massive – growth spurt he'd been through in the past five years. No fifteen year old boy should be that tall and still be growing. That just shouldn't happen. He could be a mutant, he's so tall.

Well, not really.

And while I thought about this, he continued to watch me with wide, expectant eyes.

He has really nice eyes, I decided. I'd tell him that but he never seemed to appreciate me complimenting him before, so I won't start now.

"I'm telepathic as well," I confessed finally.

"Eh?"

I rolled my shoulders back.

"I can read your mind," I told him bluntly, deciding that there was a time and a place to be delicate, and this wasn't it.

He blinked several times, before growing extremely uncomfortable. "Wait, so…you can hear my thoughts? You've heard everything I've been thinking?"

He seemed terrified by the very notion. It made me wonder what on earth he'd been thinking these past few days in order to incite that kind of reaction.

_Jean,_ I reprimanded myself. He's a fifteen year old boy. You don't have be all that imaginative to guess why he's frightened by the possibility that I've heard everything that's passed through his head.

I shook my head. "I was taught better than that. I have respect for people's privacy. Although I can understand your concern."

He relaxed just a little.

"That being said, you have this tendency to project when you're in a mood."

His eyes narrowed. "…project?"

"You think loudly," I explained dryly. "I can't help but pick things up when you do it. It's no big deal, lots of people do it when they're mad or scared or stressed."

Despite my good intentions, this didn't seem to put him at ease. At all. "Right."

I slowly made my way over to him and sat down next to him, being more cautious than I'd ever been before. Clearly it was going to take him a while to process this. Understandable. I'm still worried about him.

"Scott?"

He jerked violently at the call of his name, apparently he'd been deep in thought. I fidgeted uncomfortably.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," he answered stiffly. "I'm fine. Just…thinking."

"Sure."

He hasn't yelled or tried to burn me at the stake yet, and I couldn't help but allow a small, niggling feeling of hope to blossom. Maybe he's okay with it. Maybe we'll be fine. Maybe, just maybe, I haven't just made the biggest mistake of my life, ever.


	3. Chapter Three

After a small amount of sitting on my bed and quietly freaking out as much as Scott Summers is capable of freaking out, he finally managed to get to the point where he was calm about the whole deal and resolved not to mention it again. He had about million and one questions about it all, I knew he did, but he refrained from asking any of them for some reason I couldn't fathom. I once again found myself resisting the urge to dive into his mind and get the answers for myself, but didn't want to risk the tentative new friendship that had begun to appear. He was paranoid enough about it all already. And who knows? Maybe he remained silent because he was trying to be considerate and avoid annoying me.

He was taking it surprisingly well, considering. Maybe it wasn't so surprising – Scott's always been good at taking things in his stride. This is the biggest reaction I've seen him have to anything, actually. Then, all of a sudden, he stood up.

"I should probably go home – I'm supposed to watch Gabriel this afternoon."

I blinked several times. That is so not what I thought he was going to say when he finally did regain the ability to speak properly.

I stood up too. "Need company?" I asked him, possibly a little too earnestly. "I could come over with you."

"Sure, if you want," he said with a nonchalant shrug.

Well…at least he doesn't seem too adverse to spending time with me.

Not another word was said between us as he made his way home and I followed him silently, not knowing what to think. Maybe I was being too clingy, but if he really didn't want me around, he'd tell me. Wouldn't he? He's always been a bit blunt, why would he stop now?

Very little of the interior of his house had changed. I don't know what I expected. It wasn't like they'd completely redecorated, there wasn't much reason for them to do so. Rather than think about it too much, I followed Scott as he ducked into the living room to check who else was home before ushering me up the stairs to his room.

Once we were both safely in his bedroom, he clicked the door shut behind him and leaned on it, looking exhausted all of sudden. My eyebrows rose as I recognised his expression as one of the tell-tale signs he'd been hit with yet another one of those migraines he's practically famous for.

Which sort of begs the question, _why_ does he keep going to school if he can barely bring himself to function?

Small wonder Claire thinks he's misanthrope.

"Okay," he stated dully. "Right. Okay."

Nothing more was said as he slowly made his way to his bed and collapsed onto it.

I, meanwhile, sat in Scott's desk chair, spinning around and taking in everything about his room. It hadn't really changed that much. It just looked less like the bedroom of an eight year old boy and more like the kind of space a fifteen year old would inhabit. I don't know what I expected. More posters, perhaps. Instead the walls were bare. There was a small collection of athletics trophies arranged neatly atop his dresser, a few photos on his desk next to his computer, but other than that, there was nothing of note. Scott himself was sprawled out over his bed, staring mindlessly at the ceiling and saying nothing.

I suppose near constant migraines would inhibit my willingness to hold conversations, too.

Mystery of his sudden popularity solved, then? A combination of being attractive, apparently good at athletics, judging by the trophies on top of his dresser, and the fact that everyone probably feels sorry for him because of the headaches.

Makes sense.

I guess.

He's going to have to say something sooner or later. He's too curious about my earlier show of telekinesis not to say anything.

Waiting is agony, though.

We've never actually hung out like this, I realised as I both waited for and dreaded the incoming storm of questions. I revelled in it. The newfound lack of secrets between us, and the fact that we could still hang out together like normal teenagers – I loved it. I loved every second of it. I loved it to the point I was happily using telekinesis to spin the chair around increasingly faster. Scott didn't seem to notice.

That might be a good thing. Actively using my powers around him might freak him out even further.

"I have a few questions," Scott told me suddenly, causing me to snap back into reality.

I stopped the chair sharply and waited for the dizziness to fade, and braced myself. "Shoot."

"What _really_ happened to you five years ago? When Annie died?"

Okay. The serious questions first. I kept my head down. "The trauma triggered my telepathy, and I couldn't control it. It got messy."

He watched me silently and without any obvious emotion as I explained this, so I decided to plough on.

"In the end it all got so bad I had to move to the Institute in order to keep some semblance of sanity. After my telekinesis manifested, I decided it would be better if I stayed there."

"This is your private boarding school in Westchester," he stated flatly.

"That's the one."

His eyes narrowed a little. "So basically…you spent the past four and a half years at a mutant school? What was that even _like?"_

I shrugged, possibly succeeding a little too well in my effort to seem casual and nonchalant about it all.

"Once you get used to Bobby's ice, learn to avoid being near Warren in narrow spaces and stay well away from the med-lab when Hank's one of those weird moods, it's really not that bad. Oh, and you have to get used to Professor Xavier using telepathy as a kind of intercom. That too. But really, it's like any old school."

Any old school with four students who have superpowers, I thought dully.

Scott didn't seem overly convinced.

I can't really blame him.

"Sure. Sounds totally normal."

"Don't knock it til you try it, Scott."

He smiled just a little and for a brief, blissful moment, everything was normal. Everything was peachy. I beamed at Scott, unable to get into words how relieved I was about having finally been able to tell someone about all of this. He didn't seem to notice, too busy massaging his forehead.

Suddenly, he let out a groan. I spun around in the chair to face him.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine."

Translation; no I'm not fine, I'm not anywhere _near_ fine, but I'm too stubborn to admit it.

"Are you sure? Because you don't sound fine."

"It's just a headache."

I smiled crookedly before going back to gazing around his room. "It's always a headache with you," I laughed, before pausing. "Is it anything I should be worried about?"

"No."

"It's just you were in the hospital not that long ago-"

"I'm _okay,_ Jean," he insisted. "Really."

"If you say so," I muttered, returning my attention to his desk. A faint glint of light caught my attention. Slowly, I leaned over and started searching for the source, sifting through the junk he kept on his desk for some unknown reason. I lifted a pile of paper, revealing a half buried pair of sunglasses with dark red lenses set in black frames that must've been what had caught the light before. I picked them up, surprised at how heavy they were.

"Nice shades," I told him conversationally as I analysed them, blowing the dust off. I don't think he's ever worn these in his life.

Scott sat up to see what I was talking about. "What are you- …oh right. Forgot I had those."

Out of curiosity, I put them on and was greeted by a world awash with red. The lenses were really thick and heavy, I noticed as I pushed them up the bridge of my nose. They also pressed all around my eyes, and felt almost like a pair of goggles. I could see why he never wore them – they weren't very comfortable. Uncomfortable, heavy, and gave the wearer monochromic vision. He can't have bought these. No one in their right mind would.

"Where did you _get_ these?" I asked, looking around. "Also, _why_ did you get them? They're not the most stylish of sunglasses."

He smirked a little at the sight of me wearing them. "That's a good look for you. They only clash horribly with your hair."

I ignored his jibe. "You can't have bought these from a store. No store would sell them. They wouldn't sell."

"Dr Essex gave them to me."

"Dr Essex?"

"He's a specialist my parents took me to see a while back."

"For your headaches?"

"Uh huh."

"And he gave you _sunglasses?"_ I questioned. "Some specialist."

He shrugged. "He seemed to know what he was doing at the time."

"And that's precisely why you never wear them?"

"They're uncomfortable," he mumbled.

"Can't argue with you there," I conceded, pulling them off and looking them over once again. "They must've been some pretty intense headaches to land you in hospital."

He fell back on his bed, letting out an almighty sigh. "It wasn't nearly as bad as it everyone made it out to be."

"If it wasn't that bad, how'd you get yourself admitted to hospital?" I asked, turning the sunglasses over and over telekinetically. "Are these _supposed_ to make the entire world look red? How is that supposed to help headaches? I'm having some serious doubts about this so-called specialist."

"My parents freaked out, that's all. Will you _stop_ over-analysing those stupid glasses?"

I thought about it for a short while, before gingerly placing the shades back on the desk and turning to face him. He hadn't moved at all, was still lying there; staring aimlessly at the ceiling. Despite his mildly irritated tone, he didn't seem at all bothered. By anything. He was always like that, although it was never in a carefree way. He has this gift for being stoic. It's almost inhuman.

"I would have to be dying in order to freak my parents out to the point of carting me off for emergency medical treatment."

Nevermind that the aforementioned scenario actually happened five years ago.

"Yeah. Well. The headaches are the aftermath of almost dying anyway, so I probably fit that criteria."

I stared at him, utterly lost. "What?"

Scott didn't move. "Did I ever tell you about the crash?"

I jumped in surprise. That was unexpected. "I- …I don't…I don't think so, no."

He exhaled quietly. A brief image of fire flashed through my head, causing me to pull back in surprise, unused to people projecting so close to me. Scott seemed to notice my reaction and knew what it meant, because he began breathing low, carefully controlled breaths, and the image was gone as soon as it came. I waited, but he didn't elaborate. Perhaps he decided now wasn't the time.

It made me think about what I already knew about the accident. It wasn't much, I had to admit. Mostly what I knew about it was that it happened, and it was traumatic enough to cause Chris and Kate to up and leave and for both Scott and Alex to be nervous about planes for some time afterward. I think Scott is still weird about flying. I haven't thought to ask.

I've been back for all of a few days. I can't be expected to have checked up on every single little facet of his life yet. He'd get irritated that I was being intrusive, for one thing.

"I hit the ground pretty hard, ended up in a coma for a few weeks," he confessed in a low monotone. "Suffered a severe head trauma. The doctors suspected brain damage, but there weren't any obvious signs. Nothing seemed to be wrong with me, so they let it go. Consequently, whenever I have a particularly bad headache, my parents freak out."

"So your headaches…" I trailed off, unsure what to say. It's the most personal thing he's told me in at least five years. "They could be brain damage?"

"Well I certainly didn't have them before the crash."

"Shouldn't you probably tell your parents that you have one now?" I asked as I watched him stagger to his feet and slowly try to make his way across his room, clearly off balance. He looked exhausted, pale, and like he was about to hurl any moment.

Good god Scott Summers, I'm amazed you can even drag yourself to school the vast majority of the time, let alone manage to act even _halfway_ normal.

Despite the fact that he was struggling to stay upright, he laughed bitterly before clutching his head in pain.

"Yeah, right. Sure," he grunted, blindly rummaging through one of the drawers in his desk for something. "Jean, if I told them I had headache every time I _do_ have one, I'd never leave the hospital."

"So what, you sit in your room and hope no one notices?"

"Basically, yes," he told me flatly before pulling out a bottle of aspirin and dry-swallowing what was probably more pills than recommended in one dose.

"Does chugging down aspirin even help?"

"Not really," he admitted quietly. "They work briefly, then leave me to suffer. It's like…I metabolise them too quickly or something."

"You know a lot of people would kill for a metabolism that good."

He smiled grimly. "I'd swap if I could."

A silence fell between us as he stumbled back over to his bed and collapsed upon it, groaning and massaging his forehead furiously. I watched him silently, wondering how long he's been doing this. His headaches never seemed to be this debilitating when we were younger. Now they seem so ferocious that he can barely stand. Have they been getting worse? What does mean as far as his brain is concerned? How come he hasn't been noticeably affected at all by it? It doesn't make any sense.

"So what happened last week, then?" I asked. "If you hide them, how come you ended up in the hospital?"

He rolled over so his back was facing me. "Last week was…complicated."

"Care to enlighten me as to why?"

"I didn't think it was as bad as it was," he mumbled, apparently seeing no point in resisting my questions any longer. "Ended up passing out. I overestimated myself. It won't happen again."

The way he said it scared me, though I don't know how or why exactly. Maybe it was the sheer determination and flat certainty in his tone. It wasn't going to happen again, not if he had anything to say about it.

"You really think hiding is the best way to go? What if they _are _a sign of brain damage?"

"Of course they're a sign of brain damage, Jean," he all but snapped. "What else could they _possibly _be?"

The harshness of his tone took me aback for a couple of seconds before I realised just how much pain he was in. Sure, he was trying to hide it as best he could, even as he told me about it, but the look on his face said he was having more trouble dealing with it then he let on. Maybe he was trying to downplay it for my sake. Maybe he thought that if he didn't pretend to be absolutely fine I'd tell his parents.

I was considering telling his parents anyway.

Seriously. He's is a total wreck.

"Scott," I called his name dryly.

"Yeah?"

"Don't lie to yourself. And certainly don't lie to me. We both know how much pain you're really in, so why do you pretend?"

He shot me a sour look. "What do you want me to do? Scream in pain?"

"I _want_ you to consider getting yourself looked at," I said sharply. "You can't function like this."

His eyebrows shot up at my request. "Jean, I _have_ been looked at. _So_ many times. I was even taken to a specialist, and he just gave me those sunglasses. Whatever is wrong with me, there's nothing anyone can do about it."

I turned away, pausing to think about it briefly. "I don't see how you can think that letting yourself suffer is the best choice."

"Beats being stuck in the hospital forever, doesn't it?"

"Oh I see," I muttered mostly to myself. "This is about avoiding the hospital."

"It's not about anything."

_"Scott…" _I called his name exasperatedly.

"Just leave it."

He really wanted me to stop pushing it. I really didn't want to stop pushing it. He had me worried – more so than usual. Something about him trying to casually blow off a headache that was obviously more debilitating than he let show worried and unnerved me. Maybe it was the fact that he was fighting so hard to make it look like less of a deal than it was. Maybe it was his blatant refusal to even try any other solution. Maybe it was the fact that he's had these headaches for as long as I've known him but this is the first time I've seen him suffering this much.

Have they gotten worse, or have I been paying more attention? I shudder to think about either of those as the truth.

He suddenly shot me a strange look. "Are you trying to get inside my head?"

I pulled back in surprise, taken aback by his abrupt question. "What? No."

"You sure about that?"

I arched an eyebrow at him. "Pretty sure I would know if I was inside your head, Scott."

"How am I supposed to know?" he asked, still unconvinced. "How am I supposed to trust you?"

"…I thought you _did_ trust me."

"No, Jean, I trusted you _five years_ ago," he told me flatly.

"That was hardly _my _fault," I snapped. "You think I _chose_ for everything to happen?"

He looked away. "Of course I don't think that. But you could've at least tried. I mean, why the hell has it taken you five years to tell me the truth?"

"Come on Scott…mutants aren't exactly popular."

"And you think I _care_ about that?" he snarled so aggressively I pulled back a little in surprise.

"I didn't know _what_ to think!" I snapped back at him.

"Whose fault is that?" he demanded. "It's not like you went out of your way to get my opinion."

"I'm not going to be _lectured_ by the likes of you, Scott Summers," I hissed, standing up. "Okay, I made some mistakes. I admit that. But I'm trying to do the right thing and I don't need you picking me to pieces over past experiences. I already know I made a mistake. I'm sorry. I'm trying to make up for that."

He said nothing in reply to that, simply stood up and walked over to the door. I leaned back and folded my arms, confident that I had won.

"I should probably actually keep Gabriel in sight," he told me without looking back. "Feel free to stay as long as you want, though I can't guarantee it'll be all that an interesting afternoon."

He's mad at me. Or mildly annoyed at me. Maybe. I can't really tell. He's not giving me anything to work with. This is what he does when he gets angry or otherwise upset. He shuts down, and blatantly refuses to have any semblance of emotional capacity. He's done it for so long I'm not sure if it's even intentional anymore, and not just a force of habit.

In a world full of mentally unstable, emotionally repressed whack-jobs, Scott Summers probably takes the cake. Why that is I don't know. He's not a particularly easy person to work out.

Ugh. As if life isn't complicated enough already.


	4. Chapter Four

There's blood pooling out onto the asphalt. A car screeches to a halt. Someone's yelling, people are screaming – no, that's _me,_ I'm the one who's screaming. I'm screaming and I can't move and my head hurts and I can hear all these people they're all talking, chattering and it's noise, it's all noise, I can't concentrate, I can't _think_ because there's just so much _noise…_

And she's dead, _she's dead…_

Annie? _Annie?_

She's dead.

She's dying, I'm dead, I'm dying and she's dead, we're dying and I can hear her, I can see her she's right in front of me but she's fading away and oh god she's dying, she's _dying…_

Where…where am I?

A-Annie?

My head…it hurts…these people won't _shut up_ why don't they realise that they're being so loud? Just stop. Be quiet. Shut up. Shut up! _Shut up! _Don't you know a girl has just died? She's just lying there on the road, she's bleeding out and she's dying and no one, not one of these people are doing anything about it. They're yelling and screaming inside my head but _no one_ is trying to help her, help me, help _us._

Help us.

Don't you know we're dying? _Can't you tell we're dying?_

Someone runs to get help, to call an ambulance, to do something.

It's not enough. You're too late. Too little, too late.

We're already dead.

_She's_ already dead. She was dead all along.

I don't know where I am.

Where am I?

_Where am I?_

"N-no…stop…I-I can't…Annie? _Annie?!"_

I woke up screaming, with just about every item in my room whizzing around through the air. Even my heavy furniture such as my wardrobe and my bed had been lifted off the floor. I couldn't gauge what was going on around me, still in a dazed, still barely half awake state. Voices chatted away in my head, so many of them, all at once, interrupting and talking over each other, never one being clear. I clawed blindly at my bedspread before clutching my head, unable to get a sense of reality as everything flew around me in a violent tornado.

Where…?

Where am I?

I screamed and things smashed into the wall, shattering themselves into millions of tiny, insignificant little pieces and scattering into oblivion. I can do that. I can do that to physical things, I can do it to people's minds. There is no limit to my power and the things I can do.

I am power.

I am limitless.

"Jean!" I heard Dad shout my name, throwing my bedroom door open and trying to run to me, but the whirlwind of every possession I had walled me off from him.

Pages ripped from books as they flew around at increasing speeds. Clothes shredded themselves, the mirror had been smashed, sending shards of glass whizzing around at dangerous speeds, preventing anyone from coming any closer. It was a shell, my own protective shell that no sane person would dare to penetrate. It was safer for me to stay where I was.

I curled into a ball and everything started going faster.

_"Jean!"_ my father yelled once again, forced back by the whirl of danger around me.

Safer for _me,_ maybe. But not at all safe for my father, who is more than likely willing to risk his life trying to get me to stop this.

Tears began to fall down my cheeks. How do I stop this? I can't stop it. There's a part of me that doesn't _want_ to stop. That never wants to stop.

Suddenly, everything flung itself into the walls, breaking into pieces before falling straight to the ground. My bed, my wardrobe, my desk, all landed on the ground, having nothing to suspend them anymore. I sat there, shivering and crying amongst the wreck of everything I own, as Dad ran to my bed, threw his arms around me, picked me up and promptly carried me out of the room.

I retreated inwardly as Dad carried me down the stairs, shivering and unable to stop the seemingly endless flow of tears from streaming down my face. Mom trailed after us, crying hysterically herself and the second Dad placed me in one of the lounge chairs, immediately began to cling to me. Dad, now relieved of the duty of getting me to a state in which I'm not actively destroying everything in the house, picked up the phone.

He's calling Professor Xavier.

_He's calling Professor Xavier._

That's it. My life is over.

The second he tells Professor Xavier about what happened it'll be highly recommended that they send me back barely a week after I finally got to come home, and I'll find myself in a car headed back to Westchester before I can even think to argue.

"…there was no warning…no, no, she seemed to be in perfect control of it yesterday, it came on suddenly. It seems she has calmed down now. What do you advise we do? Are you able to-? …right. Yes, I understand. I'll have a word with her. Thank you for all your help, Charles."

Dad put the phone down and turned to face me, still shivering in Mom's arms in the corner, looking grave. I closed my eyes and tried to block reality out like I would the astral plane and all the thoughts around me. I could hear what he was already going to say, hear it in his mind over and over, echoing from his thoughts and into mine. I didn't want to hear it, in my head or from his mouth, but it was unavoidable. I could hear it so clearly. It seemed like the less I wanted to hear something, the more likely I was going to hear it clearer than anything else.

Really, Mom's wailing and internal panicking should've been the loudest set of thoughts here. Instead all I heard was Dad.

_Charles has a point…she's not ready for this. We don't understand the limit of her powers yet, and until we do, until everyone is confident that she can keep it under control, she won't be ready. She needs to go back to the Institute. It's for the best._

Back to the Institute.

Sent back there without being consulted myself, kept at a distance as though I've made no progress at all these past five years. Like I'll never make any progress, like my powers will always be dangerous and full control over them will forever be just out of my reach. It took me five years to get to the point where they were okay with me going back to my actual life. Now, after one telekinetic mess up, one tiny little telepathic mistake, one small, insignificant incident in which no one was even hurt, they're sending me back.

I thought I was okay. I thought I was better. I thought I was in control. I thought I was stepping forward, making progress, growing up and becoming a powerful and formidable mutant in my own right. Now it seems like every time I make one step forward, I'm actually getting sent five steps back.

I stood up. "No."

_"Jean," _my father called my name exasperatedly. "We knew this might happen. The deal was if anything went wrong, you'd go straight back."

"The deal was we'd _talk_ about it _before_ it was decided you would cart me off back to Westchester," I snapped back. "I made a mistake, that's all. It's nothing to worry about."

"You had a dream," he countered. "And your powers reacted to it. It wasn't a mistake on your part. You just don't have a high enough level of control yet. It's not your fault, and you'll be able to come back as soon as Charles has decided you have control over it. I have every confidence you'll get it in very little time."

I shook my head, irritated. "When are you going to understand that it doesn't _work_ like that? Do you have a perfect control over your mood one hundred percent of the time? Of course not! _No one_ does! There are going to be times when my powers act out, that's just how powers work! If you can't bring yourself to admit that, then I guess you'd better get fucking used to the idea of never seeing me again!"

_"Jean!" _Mom yelled as I ripped away from her, into my room, telekinetically slamming the door behind me and, in a further display of my powers and to prove to myself that I _can_ control them, barricading myself in via pushing my wardrobe, one of the few things other than my bed that survived my earlier outburst in front of my door.

My room was a mess, which was hardly surprising given everything. I once again used my power to push it all into a corner, deciding that I would clean it up properly at a later point.

I then sat myself on my bed, panting hard and trying my best to collect myself. I would have tried to go back to sleep, since it was the middle of the night, but I didn't feel tired. I couldn't call Sara, I doubt she'd appreciate it since she's off doing the college thing and she'd probably take Mom and Dad's side anyway. I need someone to _talk_ to. Someone who I trust. Someone who won't just immediately take other side. Someone who will likely be awake at this hour. Someone like…

I sighed, closed my eyes and tried to concentrate, reaching out tentatively with my mind. _Scott?_

His barely conscious mind reacted with the typical fear and confusion one does when they're unused to telepathy…which basically means every non-telepath who is not in close contact with a telepath ever. He seemed to be particularly shaky and uncertain, like he'd been having a nightmare himself. He called my name out loud, obviously recognising my voice in his head and clearly having no idea how telepathy actually works.

I can't exactly blame him. _He's_ not the one who spent the past five years in a school for mutants in which both the headmaster and the student that has been there the longest do this kind of thing all the freaking time.

_Use your mind, Scott,_ I instructed him. _That's kind of the point, after all._

_…Jean?_

I smiled a little. _There you go. Welcome to the wonderful world of telepathy._

_And your reason for invading my mind in the middle of the night is…?_

_I had a nightmare,_ I admitted a little sheepishly._ And you're just next door to me and I didn't want to text because that would waste credit. Telepathy doesn't cost anything. It's so much more efficient._

Also my phone is broken, but I didn't want to tell him that.

_A nightmare. Really. Wow. Okay. I see, that's totally worth waking me up._

Somehow, despite this being his first time trying out communicating telepathically, he's more than succeeded at conveying sarcasm. I'd be impressed if said sarcasm hadn't been directed squarely at me.

_I also had a fight with my parents. They want me to go back._

His mental tone changed almost immediately. _To the Institute? But you only just _got_ here._

There was nothing more directed at me, and I did my best not to pay attention to the rest of his thoughts that I was getting on the side due to, you know, me being inside his head. It's amazing how much easier he is to read when he doesn't have anything to hide his emotions behind. All of a sudden it's like having a conversation with a real person as opposed to a brick wall. I blinked in surprise when I noticed he was moving, namely walking down the stairs in naught but his pyjamas.

Which is…so not something I should focus on considering I'm inside his head.

_What are you doing? Where are you going? Scott?_

_I'm coming over. You clearly need to talk to someone and this whole telepathy thing is kind of freaking me out. _

Damn he's perceptive sometimes. Especially considering that on account of him not being a telepath himself, he only gets what I send him. The only way he could be in my mind like I'm in his would be if I permanently linked us or otherwise melded our minds together or something.

Not only does that idea sound really uncomfortable with far too much potential for awkward, I'm not sure if it's even possible.

I looked at the wardrobe that continued to block my door and prevent my parents coming in, not that they've tried. _You…may want to enter via the window._

_You're suggesting I climb up the side of your house? No thanks. I'd really rather not break my neck._

I rolled my eyes. _You'll want to risk breaking into my house, scaring my parents and consequently getting the cops called on you even less. Furthermore, my room cannot be accessed from inside the house. _

_You barricaded yourself in. How old are you?_

_Give me a break Scott,_ I all but snapped before pulling myself out of his mind, going over my window, opening it and leaning out, searching wildly for him.

"Down here, genius," I heard him call from directly below me. I looked down, and he gave me a little mock salute before stepping back a couple of steps. "How in hell am I supposed to- _what the fuck? Jean!"_

"Did I mention that I can use telekinesis on people?" I called sweetly as I lifted him up to the window and he swore violently in loud whispers, clearly not happy about any aspect of this situation.

I maintain that it was _his_ idea to come over in the first place.

Finally, I got him on level with my window and noticed just how utterly dreadful he looked for the first time. His eyes were bloodshot, heavily so, his skin was pale and almost waxy, and generally he looked like someone who hadn't slept for several days. I was so surprised by his appearance that I accidentally dropped him a couple of feet. He let out a yelp of surprise before I caught him. I'm surprised he didn't outright scream. Considering that, and his inability to deal with heights or flying, he's done remarkably well. I lifted him back up so he could climb through the open window. He did so as quickly as he could, tumbling through my window and clinging to the floor.

"Don't…" he gasped as he panted, "don't _ever_ do that again."

I closed the window behind him and nodded a little. "Never without your permission, starting from now. Are you okay? You don't look that great."

He sat up and shook his head. "Nevermind me. What's going on with you? Is there a reason why your room has been well and truly trashed?"

I shrugged. "Like I said, nightmare."

His eyes narrowed. "You…destroy things that thoroughly in your sleep?"

"Yes."

"How?"

_"Telekinetic telepath,_ Scott."

"Oh, r-right. Yeah. Of course."

He made a move to get up, but managed to move about an inch before almost falling back onto the floor. I watched him curiously, suddenly aware that his hands were shaking. Why, I don't know, and I don't think he's going to answer if I ask. I sat down next to him, watching him carefully. He didn't say anything, simply sat there; entirely focused on me. It was even him who eventually broke the silence.

"Sorry."

I looked at him oddly, not sure what he was talking about. "For what?"

"For this afternoon. Yesterday afternoon? What time is it?"

I went to look at my clock, but it was broken. I looked up at my desk in search of my phone but that had been broken into pieces too. Every single of my possessions had met that fate, it seemed. That was annoying. A good excuse to buy a whole lot of stuff, but annoying all the same.

"…let's just say this afternoon. And I forgive you. I'm sorry I abandoned you without a word for five years. That can't have been fun."

He smiled a little. "It wasn't particularly fun, no. But you're forgiven."

We lapsed back into silence once more. I leaned against him with a heavy sigh, trying to keep my mind off the nightmare – if you could even call it that. It wasn't a nightmare, not really. Just a memory. Reliving something terrible and traumatic that happened to me in a dream. Is that a nightmare? Can you call that a nightmare? Does that count? Does it fit the criteria for a nightmare?

"They're really going to send you back?" Scott asked, once again breaking the silence and pulling me out of my thoughts.

"Look like."

"For how long?"

"Until I stop subconsciously using my powers in my sleep; so fore- your hands are shaking. They're still shaking. They've been shaking ever since you got through the window. Scott, you're a wreck."

"It's nothing."

"Yeah? Look at yourself for two seconds and tell me you're not a wreck."

"Since when was this about me? I thought I was here because _you_ weren't okay?"

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours?" I suggested hopefully.

"Alright. You go first."

"No. _You_ go first."

"Hey. You used telepathy to wake me up in the middle of the night."

"For a good reason."

"So?"

"So, do the gentlemanly thing and distract me."

He groaned. "Just go already, Jean."

I bit my lip, but gave in. He wasn't going to back down and it was probably better if I got it over and done with. I don't want to talk about it. I do, but I really, _really_ don't. I tend to go out of my way to deny that day and its events ever happened. I find that everyone, especially me, is happier that way.

"It was about Annie," I confessed finally. "About the day she died."

The day _I_ died with her, and should've stayed dead, but somehow I managed to cling to life only to be severely traumatised by the whole experience for the rest of my life. Only for my parents to think that, because of what happened to me, I need to be coddled and gently nudged in the right direction, never too hard, otherwise I'll break into pieces as if I'm made of nothing more than glass.

Poor Jean.

Poor, fragile, breakable little Jean.

Nevermind the fact that she's what Professor Xavier called an omega-level mutant. Nevermind that he was so concerned with my rapidly growing power that he sealed most of it away in some dark corner of my head until I get to a point where he's confident I can handle it.

Poor Jean.

She could annihilate us all.

Poor, poor wimpy little Jean.

He nodded slowly. "Okay. How hard was that?"

Not as hard as I'd been anticipating, but I wasn't going to admit that to him.

"What about you?"

His expression grew strange, virtually unreadable. "I- …it's complicated. One second I'm having a nightmare about the plane crash or something like that and then…I don't know. It goes dark. I feel like I'm being watched and every time I try to look there's nothing…that doesn't make any sense. Forget I said it."

"I didn't know you still have nightmares about the accident."

He looked away. "I was eight years old, and thought I was going to die. Are you honestly that surprised?"

I thought about it for a moment. "I guess not."

Yet another brief silence fell between us. I rest my head on his shoulder and exhaled heavily. Childhood trauma. I guess it's something we have in common. Maybe that's the foundation of our friendship now. In any case, I have no idea what it was before.

"Hey…Jean?"

I sat up. "Yeah?"

"Possibly a stupid question, but do- do you think…can telepaths…"

I smiled at his hesitation. "What's this? Charismatic, athletic, perfect popular boy Scott Summers can't ask his mutant friend a simple question?"

He shot me a dirty look. "What are you going on about? I barely qualify as any of those things."

"Have you not _seen_ the people you sit with at school?" I asked incredulously. "But anyway, forget that. Back to the question."

"A telepath can read thoughts, right?"

I nodded slowly. "That _is_ the general stock standard definition of telepathy."

"And they can do other things as well."

"Frankly, it depends on the level of telepath you're talking about."

"Do you think they can affect memories?"

My eyes narrowed. "Why do you ask?"

Scott almost immediately looked down. "It's nothing. Doesn't matter. Forget I asked."

"Well it's obviously not _nothing_ if you're asking," I argued. "You must have some reason, surely. To give you an answer, it depends on the level of the telepath in question and how well trained they are in their ability. Like, I could probably do something like that, but I'm not skilled enough to know how. A low-level telepath wouldn't be able to at all. If you're talking about someone like, say, Professor Xavier, who is a high-level telepath and is extremely experienced in using his powers, then sure, easy."

None of this seemed to put him at ease. If anything, it put him on edge. I resolved to rectify this.

"Professor Xavier would never do that. Not unless it was absolutely necessary. And I'm the same. I wouldn't do that to you."

"But another telepath could-"

"Scott, stop freaking out. You've met a grand total of _one_ telepath in your whole life, and that telepath is _me."_

"You don't know that."

"What makes _you_ so damn sure that you've met another telepath? One that feels the need to screw with your memories, no less? You think we go around messing with people's brains on the street? It doesn't _work_ like that. You need to be pretty in tune with the ins and outs of someone's mind before you can pull tricks like that – assuming you're _at_ that power level in the first place. Not all mutants are bad. We're not all out to wreak havoc, you know."

Slowly, he seemed to be convinced by my statement. "I guess. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. I just…I haven't slept well lately."

I looked him over briefly, lingering on his messy hair, his heavily bloodshot eyes and his newfound gaunt, pale complexion. He appeared to have lost a little weight, too. He almost looked like a corpse. A very attractive, distinctly alive corpse, but a corpse nonetheless.

"Yeah. No kidding. You might want to do something about that before the dance tomorrow."

He jumped in surprise. "What d- …oh. That dance. You know about it?"

"Scott, please. Teenage girls _live_ for that sort of thing."

"You're going?"

I shook my head with an almost violent denial. "Hell no. I've been going to school for all of a week. It'll just end up being one big long awkward moment. Are _you_ going?"

"That _was_ originally the plan, but…" he trailed off mindlessly and started rubbing his eyes incessantly.

Tired? Or another migraine?

It's impossible to tell with him. Both are constants in his life.

"But…?" I prompted when he didn't resume talking fast enough.

"Headaches are harder to hide when they're preventing you from sleeping; causing your parents to notice," he mumbled. "I just can't – there's this pressure behind my eyes and it won't leave me alone for even two seconds. As such, I've been deemed incapable of actual human interaction."

"I _did _notice that you weren't at school," I said. "But you're not at the hospital, so it can't be too bad."

He smiled a little in agreement. "Yeah, I'm not at the hospital. Thank fucking _god."_

I beamed, glad to see him actually smiling for what seemed to me like the first time in forever. And for the first time in forever, I felt comfortable with who I was, what I was, and people around me.

My parents could think what they liked. I wasn't going back to the Institute. Not now, not when I've finally gained some stability in my life. Not when things are finally going well and making sense for me.


	5. Chapter Five

My parents, probably realising my intent not to listen to them and blatantly refuse to return to the Institute quietly, ended up placing me under what one could call house arrest. They didn't want to say I was grounded, but it was basically the same thing. I wasn't allowed to go to school. I wasn't allowed to leave the premises unaccompanied or without permission. I wasn't allowed to interact. I was to sit and wait quietly and without complaint until the weekend rolled around and then, I'd be sent straight back to Westchester. Any use of powers to escape and no doubt my father wouldn't hesitate to call the cops on me and have me carted off all the sooner. And my absence _would_ be noticed, because every half hour Mom would check on me to see if I still here.

Not to mention, even if I _did_ successfully escape, Professor Xavier can use Cerebro to pinpoint the location of any mutant on the planet – and he's just a phone call away.

I fell back on my bed and let out an almighty sigh.

I had a dream.

That's all that happened. Nothing horrible. No crazed attempt to kill all humanity and take over the world.

A _nightmare._

My powers reacted subconsciously, and suddenly it's the end of the world. Suddenly I'm incompetent, suddenly I have no control and no idea what I'm doing. If I thought Professor Xavier enjoyed watching me with an expression of grave concern before, it'll be nothing to how he's going to act now. He'll talk to me about my almost unlimited potential, and how it must be contained for the sake of everyone and everything again. He may even want to seal away more of my power for my own good. Then what will I have? I'll be stuck at the Institute with _less_ power. What is there for me to gain in this situation? Is there _any_ scenario at all in which I have something to gain instead of everything to lose?

It's not my fault. None of the others have powers that can be so devastating. Hank is a super agile, super strong super genius. Warren has wings. Bobby creates ice crystals. I tear houses apart in my sleep. I can break minds, shatter them into a million pieces if I'm not especially careful. That's all I've ever been, careful. I've been _so_ careful. I've been patient and I've watched and listened and learned and I've made so much progress from before. How is this a reward for any of that? Why am I being punished for one mistake after _years_ of being practically flawless? I can't _be_ perfect all the time. I can't _have_ absolute control. It simply isn't possible.

I can't even vent to Scott about this.

Not for lack of trying. He has his own problems regarding not being able to leave his house and overprotective parents, and Mom won't let me see him and reaching him telepathically is no-go. Seems last time I did that he ended up having a particularly bad migraine, to the point he was practically bed-ridden. I don't want to do that to him again. It's not something I'm willing to risk for another little mental chat in which I rant to him about how unfair life is. He doesn't need me to tell him how unfair life is. I'm sure he already knows.

And really, it's something I should've already known, since it tends to be the cause of almost every single major headache I've had.

I wonder how Professor Xavier copes. Then again, he's been doing this a lot longer than me. Maybe coping is simply a matter of practice. After all, control is simply a matter of practice as well, according to him. The more one uses their powers, the more accustomed one gets to them, allowing for control. That's what he always told me. Don't be afraid of your abilities, Jean. _Never_ be afraid of them. They're a part of you. They exist to protect you, to make life and survival in general a little easier.

I'm not the one who's afraid of my powers. Everyone else is.

I groaned before rolling off my bed and picking up one of the few books that survived my telekinetic rampage, collapsing back onto my bed and beginning to read. Books are the only thing left to entertain me now, since everything else in my possession that could've fulfilled that duty has been obliterated.

Maybe Dad's right. I've never had a telekinetic mishap on quite this scale before. I even tore up all of my clothes, forcing me to resort to wearing Sara's old clothes that she didn't take with her. Who knows what I'm going to do when I'm back in Westchester. I'll have to go shopping there, I suppose. The idea made me perk a little. At least shopping is relatively normal. Humans shop for clothes. That's not necessarily a mutant thing. I might not be branded as a mutant for the rest of eternity. There may be hope for me yet.

I say I don't want to live in hiding anymore, but the truth is, I do. Hiding is what I'm good at. Hiding means I don't have to deal with the glares, the whispers; the way people deliberately go out of their way to edge around me, to not interact with me. I'm fortunate in that I _can_ hide. That I still look totally normal, and nothing about my appearance gives anything about my being a mutant away. Going stealth might be shameful, but it's easier. The world doesn't have to know. It's not anyone else's business.

Except that's not true. Mutants and the powers they possess are, according to almost every kind of politician and the wider public in general, _everyone's_ business.

I closed my eyes and exhaled loudly. I can't think about this right now. The second I start thinking about the politics of it all I'll get mad and then my powers will probably react somehow, further ruining what little left of my life there is to be ruined. For the sake of my sanity, I should avoid any semblance of politics when it comes to the mutant phenomenon.

Mutant phenomenon. What a stupid thing to call it. It makes us sound bizarre and magical and not at all like people with powers and abilities beyond that of normal humans have been around for a while now. Sometimes when I hear it I have to summon all my self-control to avoid screaming in frustration. I'm not a unicorn, for god's sake. Don't talk about me like I am.

A loud _crack,_ almost like a car backfiring, interrupted my train of thought. I straightened and began to look around wildly, dropping the book in my hands. Slowly, I stood up and made my way to the window, lifting it up and leaning out in search of what had made the noise. The street was quiet, deserted. For a moment I figured I was being silly, reacting to something as mundane as a car backfiring, before realising that there weren't any cars around to backfire in the first place – I would've heard one driving by.

My eyes narrowed and I leaned a little further out the window, preventing myself from falling out via telekinesis. After a full minute or so of absolutely nothing of note, I began to withdraw inside, shaking my head and berating myself for being so easily stirred up.

Then the world exploded.

In an instant, I was back at the window, just in time to see the shattered remains of a window and bits of brick and other debris rain down as a pillar of bright red light shot out into the sky from Scott's house. I stared, eyes wide with shock as the beam promptly disappeared, although the damage had already been done – and it was extensive.

What…?

What _was_ that?

Do I even want to know?

Without thinking, I climbed through the window and jumped, using telekinesis to guide myself safely to the ground, and ran at full pelt next door in an attempt to see what the hell had just happened. That light, that beam…I've never seen anything like it before.

This has _mutant_ stamped all over it.

Before I could process anything properly, I saw Alex stagger out of the house, looking disorientated and confused, but thankfully unhurt. I immediately ran over to him.

"Alex! What just happened?" I demanded possibly a little too aggressively, though it wasn't intended to come out that way.

He blinked several times before even registering that I'd asked him a question. He looked at me, then at the destroyed window and back again, running his hands through his hair.

"I- I dunno…I just heard this loud bang from Scott's room…"

Scott.

Oh…_fuck._

"Is he alright? Alex! _Is Scott okay?"_

Alex didn't say anything more, apparently in shock. Not all that surprising, given the events of the past couple of minutes. I began to move towards the house but was stopped in my tracks when the front door was thrown open yet again and Scott appeared, shaking violently, a nasty cut across his cheek and his eyes shut tight, but otherwise looking okay.

Why are his eyes closed?

"Scott!" I called his name, running over to him and trying to see if he was okay. He didn't look it. I don't know what I expected – whatever just happened, it blew out his bedroom window and part, if not all of the wall around it. There's no reason why he should be in any way okay.

"D-don't…" I heard him choke out in a panicked voice, "don't come near me. Don't touch me."

He's terrified. I've never seen him this frightened before.

"Scott," I took his hand and called his name soothingly. He was obviously panicking, he was tense, panting heavily and kept his eyes shut tight for some unknown reason. For a couple of seconds he seemed to relax a little, but it didn't last long.

_"Get away from me!"_ he screamed, ripping himself out of my grip, turning heel and positively fleeing down the street. I stood stock still, utterly at a loss of what to do. I don't know what's going on unless-

I froze. I stopped completely. I couldn't bring myself to move at all as the realisation hit me.

Oh…

Oh no.

No, no.

This can't be happening.

This had better not be what I think it is.

That red light, that energy-

Was that Scott?

But Scott's not-

He can't be.

Not him. Not now.

Scott's a _mutant?_

No. No, he can't be.

_Of course_ Scott's a mutant. Why would he be anything else?

Since when was _Scott Summers,_ of all people, a mutant?

What kind of power is that, anyway? Some kind of concussive energy beam? I haven't seen anything like that in a mutation before. I wonder if Professor Xavier has.

If Scott's a mutant…

How did I not see this coming? I should've seen it coming. There were warning signs all over the place. The fact that his headaches were getting so bad should've been enough to arouse suspicion. Why did I dismiss that? How did I miss it? How did I manage to miss all of it? I should've noticed. I should've done something. I should've called Professor Xavier. I could've helped. This could've been avoided. Now he's gone.

Oh crap.

He's _gone._

I can't just abandon him to his fate. He's scared and alone with an out of control mutant power – just like I was when Annie was killed and my powers manifested. If my telepathy was unmanageable, who knows what kind of damage something like that energy beam can cause? He needs help, and I'm the only one here who can help him. After all, who else is there? Who else here has any idea of what's happening to him?

Whatever _is_ happening to him, because I have no idea what that beam is supposed to be.

Alex practically fell to the ground, unable to keep himself standing. I turned to him, at a loss of what to do. Is he hurt? Should I call an ambulance? Was Gabriel in the house? Do I go after Scott? Where _is_ Scott?

"Alex," I called his name as gently as I could manage, kneeling down in front of him. "Alex, are you okay? Are you hurt? Do I need to call an ambulance?"

Slowly, he shook his head. I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Where's Gabriel? Is he still inside?"

Again, Alex shook his head. "He went with Mom…they went to a friend's or something…" he trailed off into silence.

I nodded and pulled him to his feet. "I'm going after Scott. You can stay in my house. My mom will look after you if you need anything."

I pulled out the phone I'd been given since I destroyed my old one and immediately dialled the Institute's number before running down the street, chasing after Scott even though he had long since disappeared. Maybe I shouldn't have left Alex there on his own. Maybe I could've handled the situation a million times better. But I was shocked and I was panicked and I didn't know what else to do.

Please don't go too far Scott, I kept thinking to myself over and over as the phone rang. Please, for the love of everything, don't go too far.

This is just another recruitment mission. The fact that it's Scott changes nothing. Recruitment mission. That's all. I have to be friendly and charismatic and a good example of what the Institute can provide, like always. This is nothing more than any other old recruitment mission.

Not even I believe that.

"C'mon…pick up, you have to pick up, for the love of god and all things holy someone _has_ to pick up…"

"…hello?" a bored, all too familiar voice answered. "Xavier Institute for Gifted Young People…or whatever. How can I help you?"

"Bobby!" I yelled into the phone. "I need you to get Professor Xavier. _Now."_

"Jean? Yeah alright, hang on a minute."

_"Quickly, _Bobby!" I screamed.

"Jesus Christ Jean, calm down. Where's the fire?"

"Robert Drake, if you don't get Professor Xavier on the phone in the next ten seconds, I will have you removed from this life and sent to the next in pieces," I snarled.

I'm not usually this short.

Then again, this kind of thing doesn't usually happen to me.

_Damn_ his powers manifested violently.

"Jean," Professor Xavier called my name smoothly.

"Professor!" I had to stop myself from screaming. "Professor, something's happened, my friend Scott, he- I think he's a mutant. I think his powers are manifesting. They're kind of destructive, too-"

"Yes, I'm aware," he told me in a perfectly straight, calm voice. "Scott Summers. Cerebro got a reading on him earlier. Where is he now?"

"He took off!" I actually did scream this time. "He's gone, he freaked out and ran. I'm trying to find him but I have no idea where he went. I don't know what to do."

"Find him," he answered. "Find him, and try to calm him down if you can. I'll be there as soon as I can."

And with that, he hung up, leaving me to chase down a frightened mutant teenager with amazingly destructive powers he in all likelihood has no idea how to control on his own.

"Helpful," I muttered into the dead phone. "'Find him'. Real helpful, Professor. How do I even do that?"

This can only end badly. This kind of situation only ever ends badly.

Relax. Professor Xavier is coming. He'll be here as soon as he can, after all. That's what he said. He promised. Of course, he can't take the jet for the sake of keeping a low profile, and it's a two hour drive from Westchester. So I'll have to track Scott down and somehow avoid catastrophe for a couple of hours on my own. Professor Xavier will be able to handle it easily when he gets here. In the meantime, I just have to hold onto my sanity and try to find Scott somehow, even though he's gone and I have no idea where he would disappear to.

This would be so much easier if he had a regular place he went to when he freaked out like this.

But that's Scott for you. He's the stoic. He doesn't freak out. He doesn't get scared or upset. He remains calm whatever the situation…or at least, he had been like that up until now. He's never done this before. Never before in all the years I've known him have I ever thought him even _capable _of blind panic. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to deal with this. He's scared, he's terrified, he's freaking out and I can't do anything to help him. Not until I find him.

How do I go about finding him?

I can't find him without risking losing control of myself like I did when my telepathy first manifested and possibly going catatonic again.

He's out there somewhere, panicking with a destructive newfound mutation, and the mere _thought_ of that as well as the possible consequences this will lead to is making _me_ panic.

I moaned quietly. I hope he appreciates just how much I'm putting on the line for him right now.

Please hang in there Scott, I found myself thinking as I lowered my mental guards and desperately searched for his mind among a sea of minds and his thoughts a never ending ocean of thoughts to the point it's all just noise. There's a crowd, a vast expanse of people, thoughts, memories, everything about the identities of everyone in the general vicinity, pouring in and crashing down on me violently, and the noise, it's all just _noise…_

Who am I?

Where am I going?

What am I looking for?

I don't know. I can't tell anymore.

Am I running?

Where am I running to?

Who am I looking for?

Why am I so scared?

Scott?

_Scott?_

…I can't do this. It's too much.

I can't handle it.

It's all just noise.

How am I ever going to find him?

I can barely keep myself together with my barriers down, listening to everyone like this. I can't focus it. I'm getting _everything._ There is no filter. It's all or nothing.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and threw my shields up again, shutting out the noise. I can't find Scott telepathically. I'm not trained to do that. I've only ever trained in blocking everything out. I need to learn to pinpoint people. Maybe I'll ask Professor Xavier about it later. Maybe, one day, I could even learn to use Cerebro. But right now, I don't have any other way to track Scott down. I'm lost. I'm lost, he's lost; we're all lost in the midst of our own fear and panic. I need help. I can't rein it in. Not on my own.

"Scott?" I called, trying to ignore my growing fear of never being able to find him. "Scott, where are you?"

What if I never find him? What if something happens and I'm not able to stop it because I won't be there in time? What if he's in danger? What if he's dead by the time I find him?

_"Scott?"_ I was yelling his name now, getting desperate. "Scott! _Scott!"_

I slowed to halt and tried to focus. I can do this. I never thought I'd be able to block the noise out when my telepathy first manifested, but I did. I learned to do it. There really isn't any reason as to why I can't learn to do this as well. I have to. For Scott's sake.

Slowly, tentatively, I lowered my barriers bit by bit, scanning all the minds that flowed into mine. I staggered a little from the effort of taking it so slowly and carefully, but kept going. I have to be meticulous, otherwise I might miss him. I can't afford to miss him. He can't afford me to miss him.

And then;

"Found you," I murmured triumphantly to myself. "Hold on, Scott. I'm coming."


	6. Chapter Six

I found Scott curled up and rocking slightly behind a dumpster in an alleyway, gritting his teeth in pain as blood dripped from his lip and his eyes squeezed shut tight. He was bruised and battered, his clothes torn, his hair in disarray and basically, the boy was a mess. A wreck of human being. I'd never seen him in this state before. It never even crossed my mind that confident, athletic, generally perfect Scott Summers could be like this, curled up helpless in an alleyway, sobbing tearless sobs like a small child. I began to approach him cautiously, but this seemed to only freak him out even more. The second he heard my footsteps he began to scramble backwards, mumbling as he begged for me to spare him, blindly grasping at anything he thought he might be able to use as a defence. I've never seen him like this before. I shudder to think what happened to him in the last hour or so to make him this fearful and desperate.

I gently brushed against his mind, trying to find answers.

Images flashed through my head, of a blinding light, of a crane, of a crowd, all stained in a bright crimson. Fear and pain coursed through him. Feelings and memories of things I both understood and had no idea of flowed through him, all jumbled together in a panicked mash of everything. Suddenly there was fire and screaming and ground rushed up to me before it all promptly vanished, leaving nothing but darkness and maniacal, howling laughter in the background before I managed to finally claw my way back to reality. He was terrified and paranoid of everything around him, including me. _Especially_ me, judging by the way he's acting. I exhaled as I tried to collect myself and pull away from his mind. Using telepathy on him now could be disastrous for both of us.

"Please…I-I don't…I didn't mean…it was an accident, please, _please…"_

"Whoa Scott, calm down – it's me," I assured him. "It's Jean."

_Jean? _

My name echoed endlessly through his mind and since he was projecting due to being in a panic, it rang out through mine as well. At least, I think he was projecting. Either he was projecting or I hadn't pulled away from being in mental contact with him properly. I tried to breathe and redoubled my efforts to stay in the corporeal world rather than drift onto the astral plane. It was easier said than done.

Scott seemed to freeze completely, apparently refusing to open his eyes to check if it really was me. More fear. More panic. I could feel him try to suppress it, to calm himself down, but he wasn't having much success. Neither of us were getting very far when it came to our minds, it seemed.

"…J-Jean?" he stammered, sounding more like a lost child than ever before.

_Jean?_

_Jean? _He thought my name again and again, followed by a long tirade of variations of; _W-what's happening to me? I can't see, I'm blind – am I blind? My…my head…_

"It's me, Scott," I assured him gently, still struggling to pull myself out of the chaotic mess that was his thoughts somehow.

"You shouldn't- …I thought…what are you doing here?"

I gingerly made my way over to him. He pressed himself as hard against the wall as humanly possible. He was panicking. It didn't take a genius or a telepath to work that out. He was breathing hard, his hands were balled up into fists, and was still trying to get as far away from me as he could despite knowing that I wouldn't hurt him. For the first time since I came back, he looked young; like a kid again. So weak. So pathetic. It didn't help that he was covered in scrapes and bruises.

I reached out to touch him, but the second my hand came into contact with his skin he slapped my hand away and pressed himself even harder against the wall.

"Don't- don't…don't touch me," he managed hoarsely. "Please Jean, just stay away from me."

_Dangerous,_ he thought over and over again. _I'm dangerous. Stay away from me. Don't know what's going on – am I blind? Am I going to be blind for the rest of my life? It…it hurts…Jean…_

_Am I blind? _

_I- I can't stop it._

_Why can't I-?_

_Shouldn't I be able to-?_

_Jean?_

"Stay away from you?" I asked incredulously, my eyebrows quickly rising. "What, you want me to just leave you here? What kind of friend would that make me?"

"I'm _serious,_ Jean. I'm dangerous. I could-"

"Scott Summers, you are a _mutant,_ not a weapon of mass destruction," I told him firmly.

He winced the second the word mutant left my lips. "You don't know…you haven't seen…"

"I'm _not_ going to leave you bleeding and alone in an alleyway, Scott."

_Bleeding?_

_I'm bleeding?_

_Am I bleeding?_

I raised my mental shields as high as they would go. I couldn't think rationally with him panicking in my head. I know it wasn't his fault, I know that people just project when they're under great emotional stress, but I need a clear head. That, and I don't want to be eavesdropping on him. Not now, when he's so fragile and vulnerable looks like he's about to break into pieces.

No. I will give him whatever freedom I can. I want him to feel safe. I want him to know that I will never use my powers against him. I want him – I _need_ him to trust me. Now more than ever.

"Listen to me," I urged him quietly. "I know what this is, what you're going through. I know what it feels like, being terrified and cowering in an alley way because you don't understand your powers. I've been there before."

He said nothing, simply withdrew further into himself, shaking all the more violently, his eyes clenched shut tight. I watched him closely, waiting for him to do something stupid. Waiting for him to decide not to listen to me, to try to run like Bobby had, or to deny the truth as Warren did. He rest his head against his knees and clenched a fistful of his hair so tightly I could see his knuckles whiten.

"It's okay. I'm telling you right now – it's going to be okay."

No reaction.

"Scott."

He shifted ever so slightly at the call of his name, but other than that, stubbornly ignored me. I don't know why he did that. Then again, he's hardly at his most rational.

_"Scott."_

Finally, mercifully, after several agonising seconds, he raised his head just a little. Just enough to indicate that he was actually listening.

"This – what you're going through right now – is as bad as it gets. You're not going to be stuck like this for the rest of your life. It gets better. That I can promise you."

He lifted his head more at this, and a tiny flicker of hope flashed across his otherwise panic stricken expression. His eyes were still clenched shut, which made me wonder more about his mutation – whatever it is. I honestly have no idea. It's some kind of energy beam or something and maybe – just maybe, considering the fact that he hasn't opened his eyes at all since it first happened – his eyes have something to do with it.

But he's visibly calmer now. He should be fine. That's how it works, after all, mutations and powers only really get out of control when your emotions go a little wild. They react. It doesn't help when they manifest because then people panic and then their abilities react to the panic and it's just a vicious cycle. It's such a crucial time when you're trying to get people onside with the Institute. If you can help them through the trauma of manifesting powers, people generally trust you.

"Open your eyes, Scott," I encouraged him lightly.

He immediately pulled back, as far from me as possible. "No. N-no…Jean, I can't. I _can't."_

"Come on Scott…nothing bad is going to happen."

"You don't know that!" he had to stop himself from screaming.

I pulled back, shocked by the sudden shift in his mood. He hit his head against the brick wall a couple of times before sinking back into a shivering wreck of a human being. All the panic, fear and anxiety was suddenly back, just when I'd started to get him in a better headspace.

"I-I can't, I _can't._ Things get destroyed when I open my eyes. Please, _please_ don't make me. I- I can't stop it."

My eyes widened. He's freaking out, he's literally begging me not to force him to open his eyes. He's never begged for anything in his life. He doesn't act like this. This isn't like him at all. I don't know who this boy is, but he sure as hell isn't Scott Summers. Not the Scott I know.

"Sure you can. You just need to calm down."

"No…" he moaned pathetically. "That won't help. Nothing is going to help."

"Scott," I called his name gently. "You can't just give up on yourself like that. Sure, it seems hopeless now, but that doesn't mean you're doomed."

He said nothing reply, simply shivered. I took the opportunity to look him over once again, taking time to notice each and every wound he had. Now that I thought about it, most of these look like they've been purposely inflicted by other people. My fists clenched briefly, but I forced myself to relax. Focus on getting Scott to the Institute. Or at least, back home to a reasonably safe environment. Get mad at bigoted idiots later.

"Even if you can't control your powers now, you can learn," I assured him. "After all, I learned. I thought I was going to go crazy, but I didn't. I was okay. You will be too. So quit the angst."

He pulled back, obviously incredulous. "How?"

"You don't know how to stop angsting? Wow Scott, you've got worse problems than I thought," I joked.

He didn't reply, simply retreated inwardly. I sighed, deciding to be serious this time.

"You know Professor Xavier?"

"…the therapist your parents sent you to?"

"Yes. Teaching mutants to control their powers is kind of what he does. I really think you should come to the Institute. He could help you."

_"How?"_ he repeated, becoming distressed again. "What about my parents- oh my god, I destroyed the house. I didn't mean- …it-it was an accident…I could've…I _should _have…"

He began to panic, pulling away from me, squeezing his eyes shut tight and gritted his teeth. I tried to calm him down somehow, but to no avail.

"Alex was home- I could've hurt him! I could've _killed_ him! A-and _Gabriel…_he's only six for crying out loud! I could've killed both my brothers – what if they're already dead? How am I ever going to-?"

"Alex is _fine,_ Scott. And your mother took Gabriel to a friend's house. I really don't know why you're so worked up-"

"You don't _know_ that!" he just about screamed. "I-I can't control it, I can't stop it; I can't do _anything-"_

"Scott Summers. You need to calm down. Now."

"No, you don't understand, I-"

"Would I lie to you, Slim?" I asked him dryly. "Have I _ever_ lied to you?"

He flinched at my use of that nickname, but didn't bother to argue. Instead he focused on calming his breathing. I breathed a sigh of relief and resumed my pitch for the Institute.

"Look, if anyone can help you, it's Professor Xavier. The Institute is the best place for you."

"How do you know?" he asked shakily.

"I don't, not really. All I know is that it worked for me and the people there are really understanding – they have to be. You're just going to have to trust me."

He turned away and moaned quietly.

Oh _Scott_, I thought despairingly. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help you.

"So," I stated quietly.

"So?"

"So, do you trust me?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose in what seemed like exasperation. "I wish I didn't, but…yeah. Yeah I do."

I bet you wish a lot of things, Scott.

Smiling, I grabbed his hands and pulled him to his feet. He was still shaky, unstable, and kept his eyes clenched shut out of what seemed to me like sheer paranoia, but at least he wasn't on the verge of completely losing all traces of sanity anymore. I put his arm over my shoulder and wrapped my arm around his waist in an effort to support him. It's the kind of thing I probably would've done if he was injured. He was, sort of, probably not bad enough to hinder his ability to walk, but still. The fact that he insisted on keeping his eyes closed made me feel a little better about doing it.

Once I had him, we slowly but surely made our way out of the alley and along the street, leaving me to wonder how on earth he managed to get here without getting hit by a car or whatever in the first place. Luck, I guess.

He was still shaking.

Still afraid.

I don't know what to do.

I don't know how to help him.

I resolved to distract him with stories of my own experience with this kind of thing. Distracting him had to work better than trying to console him.

"My telepathy came first," I murmured. "Almost the exact second Annie was hit there was this explosion of noise in my head – it completely blindsided me. And then I was in Annie's head. I don't know how or why I got there, but I was inside her head, and I felt everything. All the things that went through her mind, I felt all of it. Then we- …then _she_ died, and she would've taken me with her if I hadn't somehow pulled out in time. I'd been so entrenched in her mind that I didn't even know who I was anymore. I basically went catatonic, and no one could work out what to do about it. Had my parents not called Professor Xavier, I'd probably still be in that position."

Scott exhaled quietly. "Sorry. I- …I didn't know."

I smiled sadly. "I know. And I wanted to tell you, Scott. I wanted to tell you everything the second I got better, But, well, my parents were really sensitive about it all and I didn't know where you stood on the whole mutant thing and I guess…I guess I was too afraid of the consequences."

"Can't blame you there. People don't seem to possess a level of basic human decency."

I laughed a little, before shrugging. "Doesn't matter now, does it?"

"Suppose not," he admitted quietly, before letting out a small groan that sounded like it was something of absolute despair. "What are my parents going to say?"

"Nothing," I told him firmly. "They're going to accept it fully without any qualms because your parents are wonderful, accepting people that have no problem at all with people who are a little different."

"I blew up the house."

"You didn't blow up the house."

"You didn't see it."

"I saw at least some of it. Your house is still standing Scott. Trust me on that."

_…hate me, I can't do anything, I could've killed Alex…I could've killed those people from before…why am I so useless?_

The sound of Scott's thoughts was so sudden and surprising I staggered a little, cursing myself for not properly maintaining my mental shields like I should've done.

_Shouldn't I be able to stop it? Why can't I control it?_

_My- my eyes…am I blind?_

"Scott," I gasped as his thoughts continued to assault my mind and I struggled to block them out, "Scott, you're projecting."

He stiffened. "I- sorry. How do I stop?"

"Stop freaking out would be a good place to start."

Scott took a couples of deep breaths and the thoughts were gone just as quickly as they came. I tried to collect myself once again and resumed my task of leading Scott back home, adamant to get out of here safely. I looked across the street at a construction site that looked as though it was in complete disarray, mostly due to the fact that one of its cranes was on the ground, and appeared to have ripped apart by something. My eyes widened a little. I couldn't see it all that clearly, but something had punched through the solid steel framework and left it gnarled, twisted and bent. Somehow I hadn't seen it before – too busy searching for Scott.

What could've _done_ that to solid steel?

…aside from one Erik Lehnsherr, whom I'm reasonably certain isn't in the area and so is obviously not responsible. Also, tearing up a crane and simply leaving it at that is so not his M.O. Usually he goes for more widespread destruction and chaos of epic proportions. I have a feeling that, one day, if we're ever going to have a hope of realising Professor Xavier's dream of peaceful coexistence, we're going to have to take him on.

But if it wasn't Magneto's doing; that leaves one viable option I really, _really_ hope isn't true.

"Scott?"

"Yeah?"

"Did…did _you_ do that?" I asked, gesturing at the crane.

"Did I do what?"

I rolled my eyes at myself for somehow failing to remember that he couldn't see what I was pointing at, and consequently had no idea what I was asking him. I wanted to kick myself for not paying enough attention. I'm not sure he even wants to talk about it. No. There's no way he could've done that. Whatever his mutation is, it can't be that powerful. It's only just manifested, after all. But _look_ at that crane. It's in pieces. True, I did see what he did to his bedroom wall by accident. But there's a big difference between blowing out a wall and taking down a full size industrial crane, surely.

"Jean, I'm really not going to know what you're talking about unless you elaborate."

"That…the crane."

He immediately went silent, and his mind was immediately awash with guilt and remorse. I leaned away from him a little in order to clear my head and took his inner turmoil as confirmation.

"Jesus Christ Scott, what did you _do?"_

"Nothing!" he insisted, though clearly withdrawing inwardly. "I-it was an accident. I didn't- …I opened my eyes. I just opened my eyes. That's all I did. I didn't know it would- …I didn't know I couldn't stop it. Please Jean, you have to believe me."

I looked at him, then at the crane and back again. Maybe it's for the best if he keeps his eyes closed for now.

"I believe you," I assured him quietly. "Let's focus on getting out of here, alright?"

He was breathing hard, trying to rein in his panic somehow – and the fact that he was having trouble doing that certainly said something about his mental state. I immediately went back to my attempts to distract him.

"The telekinesis happened when I was thirteen," I said quickly. "It was awful. I had to keep my emotions in check all the time, if I got too upset I'd end up accidentally ripping the place apart. I almost sent Hank through a wall once. But I learned to control that too, over time. I can even fly now."

"You didn't tell me you could fly."

"It's not flying exactly, I just use my powers to levitate myself, like I can with anything else. Like I did with you the other night, remember?"

"Yeah…Jean, about that. Promise me you'll never do that again."

I smiled. "Not without warning."

For a few precious, blissful seconds, it seemed I had successfully distracted him. He perked up a little, or as much as he could in this situation. His thoughts stopped hammering against my shields and he calmed somewhat. For a few precious, blissful seconds, he believed me when I said everything was going to be okay, and I believed it too. This peace was short lived, however.

"I can't go back," he murmured. "Not to school. Not like this."

Oh Scott. With a power like yours, you're not going anywhere other than the Institute for at least a few years. School, normal school at least, isn't even an option.

"One thing at a time, Scott," I said gently. "Let's just get you home first, yeah? Come on."

He didn't fight me or try to argue at all. He seemed to retreat inwardly again, leaning heavily on me as he struggled to know where he was going. I exhaled sharply and tried to focus on the task at hand.

Dad is so going to chew me out when he gets home.


	7. Chapter Seven

We got more than a few strange looks as we made our way up the street together, or me in front, partially dragging Scott behind me. I glanced around edgily, resisting the urge to telepathically nudge people to mind their own business and pay us no attention. But then, we are a slightly odd sight – two teenagers, one pale, shaking violently and refusing open his eyes, the other slowly steering him up the sidewalk. Still. We were nearly there. Professor Xavier is coming. The nightmare is almost over.

No, I thought dully. The nightmare has only just begun.

Do I go with him even though it had been planned for me to leave on the weekend? Will he even to agree to go in the first place? If I don't go with him, he'll be alone in a place he's never been, surrounded by people he doesn't know. Not to mention, one of those people is Bobby. I don't want to go back this early. Not now. Not today. There are still things I need to do before I go back. Important things. Things I don't want to miss out on. Sara was supposed to be coming back for a brief visit before I left. I can't miss that. I can't just leave Scott to his own devices, either. And he needs to go as soon as possible, so Professor Xavier can get an idea of his power and help him learn to control it as soon as he can.

I can't just leave Scott alone. He's going through something highly traumatic and he needs me. I can't just abandon him. Not again. I already abandoned him for five years because of my own messed up powers. I don't want to do that to him again. Never again.

_"Jean!"_ I heard my mother scream my name as she raced out of the house.

I suppressed a groan and halted at the curb out the front of Scott's house before letting go of him. How do I explain this? What do I say? Oh sorry I left the house Mom, it was an emergency? She's never going to believe that. Not unless Scott backs me up somehow, and he doesn't seem capable of talking at all at this point.

"Where on earth have you been?" she demanded furiously as she reached us. "What happened?"

"I- …uh…" I mumbled, failing to come up with anything that sounded halfway believable. Scott, meanwhile, very unhelpfully partially collapsed onto the curb, pulling his knees into his chest, shutting down completely. I can't blame him. He's been through a lot today and though it didn't go at all smoothly, he's still doing far better than I did when my powers first manifested. Kind of. Sort of. He hasn't landed himself in hospital or prison yet, at least.

"I thought we made it _absolutely_ clear that you weren't to leave the house!" she snapped at me, paying no attention to the fact that there was clearly more to the situation than she was aware of. "I know you're upset about going back, but you have to understand that your father and I only want the best for you-"

"Mom, I wasn't sneaking out. Scott was in trouble and I had to help."

Mom looked from me to Scott and back again several times. "I suppose that's why Alex has spent the afternoon sitting silently in my kitchen?"

Scott immediately straightened. "Alex? Is he okay?"

"Alex is _fine,"_ I assured him before returning my attention to my mother. "I'm sorry I left the house without permission. It was an emergency."

She looked at me suspiciously, unconvinced of my words. She then glanced at Scott and the general wrecked state he was in before returning her attention to me. I stood motionless, waiting for judgement.

"I also called Professor Xavier," I murmured when Mom didn't say anything. "He's coming – probably to talk to Scott. If it comes down to it, I'll leave today."

Apparently that was good enough for her. She nodded curtly at me and returned to the house to call Dad and tell him that I was alright, that I hadn't actually run away from home, and that they didn't need Professor Xavier to use Cerebro to hunt me down. I'd worry about what walking back into the Institute not even that long after leaving is going to look like, but right now I have other, more pressing issues to talk about. I need to focus on stopping Scott from going completely insane. And then maybe, if he decides to go to the Institute and his parents are okay with that happening, I'll decide to go with him because he's already traumatised enough as it is and going to a place that's unfamiliar to him while forcing himself to be blind can only end badly. Worse still, _Bobby Drake_ lives there.

I gritted my teeth a little at the thought. If Bobby shows any signs of making this at all harder for Scott, possible injuries from multiple Danger Room sessions will be the _least_ of his worries. There will be nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. I will end him.

Well. Maybe not _end_ him. Yell at him and possibly also deliberately display how devastating my powers can be, now that's more like it.

I thought about the nightmare, and what I did to my room the other night. I don't need a demonstration. Everyone already knows how dangerous I am.

And yet, there sits Scott, his eyes shut tight and blatantly refusing to open them; shaking violently with fear and paranoia, desperate not to hurt anyone even though as far as he's concerned, that's all his powers are good for. Desperate to not be dangerous. Desperate for something, anything, even just a small semblance of control. Angry and upset that this had to happen to him, and it had to happen to him _now._

He's terrified. He's out of control and he hates it.

Scott needs control. For him to suddenly find himself without it has to be the most terrifying thing that's ever happened to him.

"It _can_ be controlled, Scott," I assured him quietly. "You can learn how to control it. We all did."

He didn't reply.

He doesn't believe me.

I'm not even surprised.

"I can't stop it," he mumbled, his voice barely audible. "Why can't I stop it?"

I sat down next to him and put my arm around his waist reassuringly. "That's just how mutations are when they manifest, my friend. You don't have any less control than anyone else when their powers manifested. It's just life."

It's just life.

All just part of being a mutant.

He doesn't deserve this. No one deserves this. There isn't one person on this entire planet that deserves this, the fear, the hate, the desperation. We've all got stories. Every single one of us has our own twisted history. We all have scars, both physical and emotional. I shut myself up, cut myself off from society because I didn't feel as though I was worthy to participate in it anymore. Bobby still to this day spends his time constantly unsure about whether or not his parents will let him come back home. Hank has been ridiculed by just about everyone who has ever met him. Warren was compelled by his own self-loathing to try to cut his wings off – and even now, when he's in an environment full of people who accept him completely, he continues to look in the mirror and hate himself. I can't imagine how much you have to hate your state of being that you're willing to cut your own limbs off, that you're willing to go through that pain.

And now Scott's forcing himself to be blind, driven by fear of an uncontrollable power that will only get worse the more he panics. All I can do is watch helplessly, and drag him into the crazy tangled world that I've spent all this time trying to escape from.

To think, he's a mutant. Just like me. We both have an active x-gene and neither of us knew for so long. I never should have feared what he would think of me. Truth is, we're both mutants and we're more similar than I ever realised.

Mutant.

Weird. Other. Deformed. Inhuman. Alien. _Mutant._

I don't care much for the word. I never have.

Because I don't want to live in a world where my defining feature, the one aspect of my being that anyone pays attention to is the fact that I have abilities. I don't want to live in a world where people like me and my friends are considered freakish. I have to believe in peaceful co-existence. I have to believe that one day, I won't want to hide anymore. I have to believe that one day, no one, not one single person on this earth, will ever feel the need.

I was pulled out of my own train of thought by another's. I don't know why I was so surprised. Scott wasn't handling it well, he was terrified and panicked, so of course he was projecting. Externally, he was still and silent, utterly stoic as he always is. Inside his head, he was a raging mess of fear and anxiety, utterly lost within his own thoughts which were quickly destroying him. The same thoughts kept passing through his brain, never varying. The same cycle gripped him, sending him spiralling into an inescapable abyss of depression.

He's dangerous.

He's out of control.

He will never _have_ control.

He's going to get everyone around him killed.

He's dangerous.

He's out of control.

_Oh Scott,_ I thought in his direction. _We all are._

He wasn't able to focus his thoughts enough to send anything coherent back at me. I just got a mess of images, all stained in the same bright, bloody crimson, with the distinct feeling of irritation along with every other emotion he's having. Fear. Anxiety. Anguish. Depression. Anger. More fear. So much fear.

So much red.

_Breathe, _I advised him. _Breathe and try to calm down. It's going to be okay. I promise. It sucks and it's complete hell for a while, but you can control it. Scott, listen to me. You can learn to control it. After all, I did._

_I'm not you._

I jumped, a little startled at his sudden reply. Scott didn't move, or make any visible signs that he was having a telepathic conversation with me. I glanced around uneasily, checking if anyone was still in sight. I wanted to talk to him – actually _talk,_ with mouths – but I didn't want to risk being eavesdropped on. Sure, it'd be easy for another telepath to listen in on a silent conversation, but I'd be able to feel their presence and it's not at all likely to happen in the first place.

I sat down next to him and hugged him tightly as he shoved his emotions back, a cold determination to be as calm and as stoic as possible coming over him.

"You don't have to do that," I murmured – out loud, this time. Because despite all his attempts at burying any semblance of emotion, I can still feel his discomfort over the use of telepathy. "You're allowed to be scared. Everyone gets scared when this stuff happens. It's scary."

Which of course, he's immediately going to deny, because Scott Summers isn't allowed to feel fear.

"I'm fine."

"Please don't lie to me."

"I'm not-"

_"Telepath, _Scott."

He didn't say anything more to me. Whether it was because he didn't have anything more to say or because he was interrupted by the sleek black luxury car that pulled up barely five feet away from us I didn't know. I stood up and dusted myself off, somehow still having the idea that I have to be as stiff and as formal as possible around Professor Xavier floating around in my head.

He just…has an air of propriety. Maybe it's the fact that he's a respected authority figure in my life, as well as a man who has been so kind and so generous to me, and everyone he has ever taken in. Maybe it's that stiff English accent. I'm not at liberty to say.

I wasn't too surprised when I saw Hank slide out of the driver's seat with a surprising grace for someone of his brawn. Hank had always been the most impressive and generally outstanding of Professor Xavier's students, and so he usually went on recruitment missions. Being an ideal representation of the kind of things the Institute can provide and everything. He's a genius. A super brawny, super athletic, super agile, super genius. Beast, as Bobby likes to call him – because if we're going to be superheroes, we need codenames. He flashed me a friendly smile and immediately walked over to greet me. I couldn't help but smile back.

"It's wonderful to see you again, Jean," he said pleasantly.

I smiled crookedly. He'll probably be changing that tune soon enough. "Just when you thought you'd finally gotten rid of me, I have to come crawling back."

I don't know if Hank really appreciated my self-deprecating humour. It's not the stuff I usually go for when I try for laughs. Then again, Hank isn't really the best person to test humour on. Not saying he doesn't have a sense of humour. He does. He's friends with Bobby, after all. But self-deprecating humour is more Warren's, or even Scott's – yeah, sure, like it's possible Scott even _has_ a sense of humour beyond the occasional outburst of sarcasm – department.

Thankfully, before I could embarrass myself further, Professor Xavier wheeled his way up to me.

It then struck me that the main reason they were here was for Scott, who hadn't moved or made any noise. I sighed, a little annoyed at myself for not remembering this sooner.

"Oh, uh – Professor Xavier, this is Scott. He- um, he's…"

"It's quite alright Jean," he assured me gently before approaching Scott himself. "Mr Summers? My name is Charles Xavier. I'd like to speak with you for a moment, if that's alright."

Scott shivered, but otherwise didn't react. Slowly, I nodded at both Hank and Professor Xavier before heading back to my own house, my own room. I don't want to be around for this speech. God knows I've heard it too many times already. I don't want to eavesdrop on Scott anyway. He's had a hard day. I don't want to make it worse. If that's even possible right now.

_Jean,_ I heard Professor Xavier's voice call my name telepathically. _I need to know what happened._

I kept walking, not bothering to acknowledge the silent conversation in any way other than telepathically. I showed him my memories of finding Scott in the alley and getting him home. I didn't bother to argue with him and ask why he didn't just ransack Scott's mind. It'd be the same answer it always is.

Ethics. Need permission to enter someone's mind. Mental trauma. More ethics.

I went inside.

I don't need to be there. I don't want to be there. I've intruded on Scott's life too much lately. I need to leave him alone. I need…I need to…

Pack.

I need to pack.

I don't want to go back, but there is no way in hell I'm leaving Scott to make sense of the Institute on his own. And I'm supposed to be going back anyway. It's easiest this way. I know it is.

I could probably pack for Scott, too. If he agrees to come. Since, you know, he's so hell bent on being blind at the moment. He could probably pull off the whole blind thing pretty well. I mean, he's already got a pair of dark shades. All he really needs to learn braille and maybe have some kind of guide, and he'd be set.

No, don't think like that. Scott's _not_ blind. He's just still trying to iron out the kinks of his power. It'll take him a while. It's the same with everyone.

In the meantime, he'll probably learn how to read braille and start counting steps everywhere and memorising routes to places because that's the kind of thing he would do.

I quickly and unthinkingly used my telekinesis to throw what little clothes I had left after that fit into the duffel bag I always used whenever I had to go anywhere. After I was done with that, I picked up the bag and practically sprinted next door, wanting to be as quick and as little of a hindrance as possible. I ran up the stairs, unable to help noticing the general wreck the house was. Scott's powers must have come on suddenly and without much warning.

The fact that his bedroom door had been torn off its hinges only supports that theory.

Scott's bedroom was…well, it wasn't much of a bedroom anymore. The wall had been blown out, the carpet torn up, shattered glass and bits of brick and splintered wood was scattered everywhere, the remains of all of his furniture.

I thought I had destroyed my room and all my possessions pretty thoroughly. It was nothing compared to this.

How? How could only single beam of energy have this much force behind it? How could that pillar of red light that I saw do this? How could it be possible for that beam to pack this much of a punch? How can it do this, and yet be perfectly contained when he closes his eyes? I hate to think what would happen if someone ever got in the way of an energy blast like that. They'd be torn apart. Literally. At the very _least._

There really wasn't much here to salvage.

I'd seen Bobby freeze the entirety of the lake in the grounds. I'd seen Hank scale the mansion and solve supposedly impossible problems with utter ease. I'd watched Warren pull some of the most amazing aerobatic manoeuvres, to the point they don't even look like they're physically possible. I've seen my own power wreak havoc with any effort on my part. I'd never seen anything like this. This is just…mindless destruction. Pure, unrefined Scott.

It's terrifying to look at.

What in God's name is going on with that beam of his? Is it punches from the punch dimension?

I took a few steps forward, looking for anything useful that survived the onslaught of Scott's emerging mutant ability. A faint glint caught my eye and I turned to find those dark, heavy sunglasses laying discarded on the floor, covered in dust that presumably had come from the wall when it was destroyed. Gingerly, I picked them up. They didn't seem the least bit harmed, unlike everything else. The frames were little worse for wear, but the lenses weren't damaged at all. They're not even scratched.

Interesting.

"A specialist, huh Scott?" I muttered to myself as I turned them over. "What did they specialise in? Predicting mutant powers?"

A theory I'd have to test later.

The sound of a car driving past reminded me that people were probably waiting for me. I quickly folded the sunglasses and tucked them into my bag and headed back outside to find Scott sitting in the back seat of Professor Xavier's car, looking not even the least bit comfortable as Katherine Ann Summers, who had finally arrived back home with Gabriel after my mother had called her, murmured constant assurances to him through the open window, looking desperate to console her inconsolable eldest son somehow.

Clearly he hadn't been the one to agree to go. Professor Xavier wouldn't have forced him, but he didn't need to. Scott would've done that himself, the second his mother starting sounding like she thought it was a good idea.

Finally, Kate pulled away from the window, looking like she was on the verge of tears if she wasn't shedding them freely already. Apparently my mother had sensed the emotional turmoil in the air because she had come outside too, and was working hard to keep everyone in as bright spirits as possible. The second she saw me approaching them she turned and pulled me into a tight hug.

"We love you," she whispered in my ear. "And this isn't going to be forever."

"I know Mom," I replied just as quietly before pulling away from her and heading to the car.

Scott wasn't having a good time of it. It was becoming increasingly obvious the longer time went on. I clutched my bag tighter, unable to stop worrying about him.

"Scott," Professor Xavier called quietly. _"Sleep."_

Scott immediately slumped, out cold all of a sudden. I shot my mentor an odd look which he didn't acknowledge. I don't know why I found it so disturbing. It was obvious that Scott was on the verge of a total mental breakdown, giving him a small telepathic nudge to sleep was the quickest, easiest and in general the most painless way to avoid catastrophe. It still made me uncomfortable. Sometimes I forget what telepathy can do to a person. I forget just how much a powerful telepath can utterly dominate someone with total ease. It scares me to think that one day, I could do that, that I may eventually have the power to rip people apart from the inside out, as well as the outside _in._

A shiver went up my spine as I recalled the feelings I had when there were no restrictions on my abilities. I need to restrictions. I _need _them. Without boundaries, without something to pull me back, there is no limit to my power and the things I can do. I'll be the most dangerous mutant to walk the planet.

It's frightening to think about. Control has never really been my strong suit.

Silently, I slipped into the backseat of the car, across from Scott, who wasn't going to wake up any time soon. He'll likely be out for the entire journey, or however long Professor Xavier wants him to be out for. I had already made the decision to stay with him and so be there for him when he wakes up and really does go through the rest of his completely unavoidable meltdown.

I watched him, unable to tell if I was doing the right thing. I mean, this has to be the right thing to do. He's a mutant. He doesn't know how to control it. The best place around to learn how to do that is the Institute, with other people like him, who are going through the same problems. So why do I feel like I've ruined his life?

I sat there, gazing at him and debating that question for the entire duration of the two hour car ride. At least he looked peaceful. More than I had ever seen him. He didn't show any signs of stirring, caught in a deep, dreamless sleep. He looked so much younger. The longer I watched him, the more convinced I became that he didn't deserve this crap.

_Oh Scott,_ I contacted him telepathically even though I knew he was incapable of hearing it at all, let alone replying. _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry this had to happen to you._

He didn't stir; his face stayed slackened and his eyes – those big, beautiful chocolate brown eyes that I'd always loved – remained closed.

I would never see them again.


	8. Chapter Eight

The drive to the Institute took no more than two and a half, maybe three hours. To me, it felt like two and a half, maybe three days. I never took my eyes off Scott, who remained utterly out of it, slumped in the corner of the seat, totally gone to the world. I'd never seen him so relaxed, so at peace. I never knew he could relax this much. It makes me realise just how tense he is all the time. It made me sad to think about it. He's fifteen. No fifteen year old has any right to be that tense all the time.

He's always been like that, ever since I met him. Sometimes I wonder if he knows how to be a teenager.

So when the car finally pulled into the garage of the Institute, I offered to stay behind and wait until Scott woke up, and be the one to explain it all to him. Professor Xavier reluctantly agreed, after I pointed out that I was already someone he trusted, and his day had been ruined enough already. In the end, I got what I wanted, and ended up sitting motionless in the car, watching Scott intently. It was probably some of the longest minutes of my life.

And then, finally, he stirred. His brow creased a little as he realised how uncomfortable he was and opened his eyes blearily. Immediately, a bright crimson beam of energy shot out, shattering the window of the car and punching a hole clean through the garage wall before Scott managed to realise what was going on and close his eyes. For what seemed like too long, neither of us moved – Scott shivering and curling in on himself in the corner and me lying flat on the seats in my effort to dodge the sudden onslaught of concussive energy.

…Jesus Christ. I'm starting to think I got off easy when it comes to powers.

It shouldn't be going off. He would have been in a relaxed state when he first woke up, there's no reason for them to activate like that.

Okay so maybe he's right. Maybe it doesn't turn off. But that makes no sense – no one has powers that just stay permanently on – unless you're Warren, but he has wings and that is _so_ not the same thing. I didn't think that's how powers worked. That shouldn't be how powers like that work.

"This…this can't be happening," Scott mumbled shakily to himself. "This _cannot_ be happening to me."

Slowly, I sat up. Please don't tell me he's going to go flying back into full on panic mode again. Where's that lord of emotional repression when you need him?

"Scott," I called his name gently. "It's okay."

His head whipped around at the sound of my voice, his eyes still squeezed shut. "Wha- …Jean?"

"The one and only."

"What are you…where…what happened?"

I shrugged, before realising that he couldn't see me do it. He is, for all intents and purposes, completely blind right now. I really need to start remembering that.

"Hey, it's okay. We're just at the Institute. You…fell asleep. Nothing bad happened. You're totally fine."

No need to mention that Professor Xavier knocked him out for the entire trip because telepathy can do that. He's scared enough already. I can tell. Actually, I'm surprised the only thing I'm getting from his mental projections is his fear. Considering what a harrowing day this has been for him, he's got a surprising amount of mental restraint. I don't recall any of the others being this calm – outwardly, at least.

"I heard something break," he murmured, pulling me out of his chaotic mess of emotions and back into reality.

"Nothing broke," I lied.

He didn't buy that. _"Jean."_

"Alright, fine. Something broke. Happy now?"

"No. What was it?"

"Just a window."

And a wall.

Let's not talk about the wall, though.

I slipped out of the car, just about dragging Scott with me. I kept a tight grip on him at all times and cast a regretful look at the demolished wall. I wonder how Professor Xavier is going to react when he sees it. Probably shrug it off; accidents are accidents, and it wouldn't be the first time something has been destroyed thanks to power mishaps. Wouldn't even be remotely out of the ordinary. I'm sure half his fortune goes into repairs.

"Hey, it's going to be okay," I insisted to Scott even though he remained silent and I knew that he wasn't buying it even for a second. "Let's just get you to one of the spare rooms and we can deal with the social awkwardness later, okay?"

He didn't reply.

I'm not sure why I expected anything else.

At that moment, Warren burst into the garage, clearly seconds away from doing something violent.

"I swear to _god _Bobby, if you've so much as _touched-"_ he cut off when he saw me standing there, clutching Scott, who wasn't entirely capable of moving freely on his own just yet. "Jean. You're back."

I forced a pleasant smile while ignoring the gaping hole in the wall behind me and general awkward that fills any and all silences every time we're in the same room. "Hey, Warren."

Warren – handsome, tall, suave, blond literal angel Warren Worthington III – looked me up and down with an utterly confused expression, and upon taking notice of Scott, immediately walked over to us and offered to help me. It was a surprisingly altruistic gesture from the guy who had spent the vast majority of his time purposely shutting himself away from the rest of us when he wasn't being an arrogant jerk.

Now Jean, is that a fair assessment of his character, or are you letting past experience cloud your judgement again?

Okay. The part of my brain that likes pretending to be Professor Xavier needs to cease and desist immediately.

"New student, huh?" he asked conversationally, helping the two of us out of the garage and into the Institute proper. "I'm Warren."

Scott did not reply. Too distressed by the whole situation, I suppose.

Nothing more was said between us as Warren and I worked together to get Scott safely up the stairs and into one of the abundance of spare rooms. I was grateful for that. The last thing I want is a forced conversation with Warren while Scott's present.

We left him alone.

He didn't say anything, but I knew that's what he wanted. Partly because I'm starting to really know him kind of well. Mostly because it's all I managed to glean from his otherwise impenetrable tangle of thoughts. So on the upside, Scott will have time to cool off and calm down and assess the situation logically. On the downside, I really don't know how long it's going to take for him to do that.

"So…uh, he seems…interesting," Warren muttered in some half-arsed attempt at a conversation starter. "You know him?"

I didn't really acknowledge him, just kept staring aimlessly ahead. The last thing I need or want right now is a forced conversation with Warren. I have a feeling I'm not going to be able to escape it, though. We live together, train together, it's not like we can continue to ignore each other's existence forever.

I suppressed a groan. This was so much easier back when I didn't think I'd be coming back.

"Ye-yeah," I managed to choke out. "We're good friends. Have been since we were kids."

I don't know why I'm telling Warren this, of all people. I don't have anything against Warren, really. It's just agonisingly awkward every time we're in the same room these days, and engaging in conversation with him for the first time in about two weeks is the most agonising thing I've ever had to do.

"Did you know he was a mutant?"

"Not until today," I answered.

He nodded. We both stood there, shifting awkwardly, trying to ignore each other's existence while still being somewhat polite. It was almost too painful to bear.

"So," Warren muttered after what seemed like forever.

"Yep," I said, unable to stop myself from mindlessly fidgeting. "I- I should…ah, get something to eat."

"Right."

I headed into the kitchen where, thankfully, Warren didn't decide to pursue me. The awkwardness of that situation might've actually killed me, or both of us. But it's okay. It doesn't matter. I'm going to get something to eat, sit down for a few minutes, then I'm going to go upstairs and probably spend the rest of my day trying to prevent Scott from going completely insane, among other things. Yeah. Sounds like a good plan. An excellent, fool-proof plan because what in this situation can possibly go wrong?

Aside from, well, _everything?_

No, don't think like that. You've got enough problems already without stressing yourself out.

I forgot how ridiculously huge this place is. It's funny how I can only be gone for a week and come back to find everything so unfamiliar. And if I find everything unfamiliar, then _Scott…_

Oh, crap. I shouldn't have left him alone.

Almost immediately, I raced back up the stairs, past Warren and almost crashing into Hank, who expertly avoided me with a quick and surprisingly agile manoeuvre for someone of his brawn. I didn't have time to stop. I yelled an apology over my shoulder and kept running, cursing myself the whole way. I'm sure he's fine. I'm sure he's absolutely fine, and I'm freaking out for no good reason because I'm a little tiny bit overprotective.

He's _fifteen._ He can take care of himself. He won't want your help anyway.

He's also _blind_ right now, Jean. He needs help, whether he actually wants it or not.

I threw the door open to find Scott sitting silently at the foot of the bed, keeping his head down. He jumped violently in surprise at the sudden sound of the door being violently opened. His head snapped up and partially turned to face me.

"Who-?"

"It's me, Scott."

He relaxed just the tiniest bit, and said nothing. I took that as an invitation to walk over to him and sit down next to him, hugging him tightly.

"Are you okay?"

He exhaled sharply, not appreciating my concern. "Oh yeah. I'm _great."_

Sarcasm? From him? Now? Well then. He's obviously feeling a hell of a lot better if he's up to unnecessarily back-sassing me. I really didn't have anything to worry about at all. I'm being paranoid. We're all being paranoid. All of us, all the time. We are nothing if we're not paranoid. About the world, about what'll happen if people find out about us. About the possibility of the Institute getting burned down should people realise why it actually exists and the purpose it serves as a safe haven.

And there I go. Getting political again. I really need to stop that. It only ever makes me angry and no one needs that right now. Getting angry means a stronger likelihood of telekinetic mishaps and causing windows to break as computers are sent through them. If a nightmare can lead me to accidentally destroy everything in my room, I'd hate to think of what'll happen if I _mean_ to inflict all the damage caused.

"But you know that it's going to be okay, right?" I asked a little anxiously. "You know that this isn't forever, don't you? That it'll get better?"

He's not buying it.

"Sure, Jean."

He is _so_ not buying it.

_"Scott…"_

He almost immediately gritted his teeth in annoyance. "Could you, maybe, _not_ read my mind?"

"I don't have to read your mind to know you're doing that thing, Scott."

"What thing?"

"That whole becoming a brick wall of emotionlessness thing."

"I don't do that."

My eyebrows rose incredulously at his words. "Wait, wait, _wait._ Are you consciously denying it or have you genuinely convinced yourself that isn't a thing you do? Because either way, you're wrong."

He didn't reply.

Too awestruck by the flawless logic of my argument, obviously.

Sure Jean. Whatever you want to believe. It's not like he's just shutting me out because he doesn't want to talk to me anymore or anything normal and understandable like that.

It was now, when I was sitting down in front of him and staring aimlessly at his face did I truly see the state he was in. His lip was split, there was a small cut on his cheek and he had a black eye – generally he looked like he'd gotten into a fight that didn't turn out his way. Somehow I'd managed to get this far without noticing. Too distracted by the stress of everything else I suppose. It was pretty stressful.

Gingerly, I pushed his hair out of his face and carefully inspected the dark bruising around his right eye. He flinched away from me the second I came even close to touching it, either uncomfortable with me touching his face or in pain. Or both. It didn't look too serious an injury, but it was still a pretty significant black eye. He had this when I found him in the alley. So someone must've hit him before I got there.

Someone hit him.

I didn't realise just how angry I was until I realised that the glass in the windows had started rattling dangerously, threatening to break.

Glass is nothing. Soon I'll be breaking someone's _spine._

How could someone do that to him?

"Who did this to you?" I asked in a deathly quiet voice.

Scott, obviously sensing the danger, pulled away from me. "I don't know. I didn't see them." _And even if I did I wouldn't tell you._

My eyes widened a little as I caught the stray thought. "You wouldn't tell me?"

"What are you- …stay out of my _head,_ Jean!"

"I'm not _in_ your head; it's just a stray thought I happened to pick up. In any case, that is so _not_ the point here."

He groaned exasperatedly. "It's _nothing,_ alright? I deserved it."

"Don't _say _that!" I screamed, outraged now. "Of course you didn't deserve it! Don't say stuff like that! How could you possibly think that?"

Scott kept his head down and said nothing. I sighed and pulled back a little, assessing his overall appearance. He wasn't looking too good. I'd been so caught up in trying to prevent him from descending into an endless abyss of depression I'd forgotten about all the cuts and bruises he has. I sighed and glanced around the room. I haven't reassured him at all. The only thing I've done is make everything worse than it already is. I'm so bad at this. I am so, so spectacularly bad at this.

I closed my eyes briefly, placing my hand on his knee. "Don't think that you deserve this, or that any of this is your fault," I murmured. "Don't you _ever _think that, Scott Summers."

He didn't say anything. Somehow, I didn't expect him to.

I held his hands in mine and gently stood up, slowly pulling him up with me. He seemed confused, but didn't say anything. Of course he didn't.

"Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?" I suggested quietly. "You're a bit of a wreck."

He didn't protest.

He didn't really do anything.

He simply allowed me to led him to the small bathroom attached to this bedroom – part of the reason why I'd decided to give him this one in the first place – silent and strangely timid, distinctly reminding me of the eight year old hiding behind his mother he'd been when I first met him. So much has changed since then, and yet, at the same time, there's very little difference. Life seems to be odd like that.

"This could take a while," I murmured, taking him in. "You may want to sit down."

He didn't move. "Where?"

"Just, I don't know, over there. On the counter. Wherever."

He still didn't move. "That's _not_ helpful, Jean."

"What are you- …oh. Oh right. Blind. Sorry, I forgot," I mumbled as I steered him to the counter.

As he struggled to navigate the bathroom he couldn't see, I rummaged around in the cupboards for some sort of first aid kit. I'm not confident I know what I'm doing, but none of these wounds look at all serious – barely anything, really, compared to the kinds of possible injuries one could get from a Danger Room session. I'm pretty sure I'll be able to work it out without much of a problem. Mostly, they're just scrapes. Should be easy enough.

"This'll sting," I warned him quietly.

"Oh Jesus Christ Jean, I'm not _three- _ah! Ow!"

He inhaled sharply and tried to pull away. I smiled a little, in spite of myself.

"Yeah, you _say_ that."

"You caught me off-guard."

"Sure I did."

He exhaled and leaned back until his head hit the wall, trying his best to ignore me and what I was doing. I kept going, focusing almost entirely on what I was doing. Part of me wanted to engage him in conversation or something, but I didn't. I didn't want him to force him to talk if he didn't want to. It was probably better for everyone if I let him call the shots on the conversations for now.

"Jean?" he called my name quietly.

I didn't look up. Eye contact wasn't going to change anything. "Yeah?"

"How long did it take you?"

"How long did it take me to what?"

"You know. Control your powers or whatever."

I didn't answer immediately. I'm not sure he really wants to hear it.

He really doesn't want to hear it.

"Scott…you need to understand that everyone is different; everyone's mutation is different. How long it takes for someone else to do something isn't any sort of indicator for you. And even with that said, everyone slips up. You're never going to be in complete control all the time."

"Yeah," he sighed dejectedly. "I know that. Just…humour me. Please?"

"Telekinesis didn't take very long," I told him after a short pause. "A year, maybe two. Telepathy, on the other hand…that took a lot longer."

"But you got that first, didn't you?"

"Well _yeah,"_ I muttered. "But it's complicated. It shouldn't have manifested as early as it did – it was triggered by trauma. Annie, and everything. I was too young, I couldn't control it; and because of that it was tearing my mind apart. Professor Xavier decided it was best for me if he sealed it away, prevented me from accessing it until he thought I could manage. That was six months ago."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologise, Scott," I told him firmly.

I hate it when he apologises for things that clearly had nothing to do with him. I hate it how he assumes everything is his fault. Not everything is about you, Scott. I wish he'd realise that. I wish he'd stop taking the blame for each and every tiny little thing. I wish he wasn't in the habit of doing so. It makes me wonder what made him start doing it in the first place.

"Point is, I don't know about you," I said. "Your powers are nothing like mine. Nothing like anyone's, actually. I mean, it's clearly some kind of optical beam of concussive energy but the fact that you can't get it to turn off is actually really kind of worrying. There's just no reason for it to…to…"

I trailed off into silence, my eyes widening as something in my brain finally clicked. Scott sat up.

"…Jean?"

_"Brain damage,"_ I whispered.

"What?"

"You told me, remember? You hit your head in the plane crash, and the doctors suspected brain damage, but they dropped it when you didn't show any symptoms."

He seemed more confused than ever. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with it! What if, just by coincidence, the part that got damaged was whatever part that controls your mutant power? You never would've had obvious symptoms before because your powers hadn't manifested yet."

"That doesn't make sense. What're the _chances?"_

"Think about it, Scott," I urged him.

He was silent for moment as he did exactly that. For what seemed like much too long, he said absolutely nothing. I waited patiently for him to realise that what I was saying made more sense than he thought it did. The silence was almost agonising. And then;

"So you're saying it's pointless."

My head snapped up. "What? No! That's not what I'm saying at all!"

"Yes it is. I'm never going to control this. What happened to me in the crash, it's not reversible- h-hey! That _hurts!"_

"Grow up," I retorted sourly, before almost immediately softening. "We'll work something out."

"You really can't face the fact that I'm going to be blind for the rest of my life, can you?"

"You're not _blind,_ Scott. You'd be able to see perfectly if you opened your eyes."

"Do you really want to take that risk?"

I sighed. He's right you know, Jean. Are you really willing to risk it? Will _anyone_ be willing to risk it? No. No, of course not. You've seen what happens. You know what he can do. The answer is no. No, you really, really do _not_ want to risk it.

"We'll work something out," I repeated, though I didn't know who I was trying to convince anymore.

"Sure, Jean."

Why do I get the feeling that he cares a whole lot more about this than he's letting on? That he's hiding a raging flood of anxiety and terror behind a wall of snark and general nonchalant behaviour?

Why do I get the feeling that I've ruined his life?


	9. Chapter Nine

Days passed, and the Institute very quickly settled back into its normal routine of absolute chaos ninety eight percent of the time. I settled back into the daily grind. Warren kept to himself. Bobby skidded around the mansion, freezing things, too excitable about the prospect of a new student and generally being a nuisance. Hank tried and largely failed to rein him in. Professor Xavier remained either in his study, trying to teach us lessons on a variety of subjects, or with Scott, trying to work out his power.

Scott did not leave his room.

And that, as it turned out, was the _least _of my problems.

"Robert _Drake!"_ I screamed as I immediately slipped on the ice ridden carpet the second I'd dared to leave my room after a conversation with Kate Summers because Scott won't pick up the goddamn phone and assure her himself that he's not dead.

Almost immediately, the mutant responsible peeked out from around the corner. "You rang?"

I got to my feet, largely with the help of telekinesis and levitated myself about an inch or so above the ice since I wasn't wearing shoes and standing barefoot on ice is like, well, _standing barefoot on ice._ Not pleasant. Not even close to a desirable sensation and oh my god am I going to make him pay. I'm not in the mood for this. I'm hardly ever in the mood for his antics, but I'm particularly not in the mood for it today.

He is _so_ annoying, even at the best of times. Bobby Drake, professional annoyance.

"Ice, Bobby?" I huffed angrily, arms folded. "Ice, in the halls, immediately outside people's bedrooms? _How _many times have we talked about this?"

He grinned and leaned against the wall. "You and me, personally?"

"Try in general, you unbearable, frostbitten piece of-"

"Someone's grumpy this morning," he interrupted my string of increasingly violent curses, before changing the subject completely. "Where's this new student I keep hearing about? He's been here how long and I don't think I've ever actually met him. Talk about reclusive."

Part of me couldn't help but agree. Scott's introverted enough normally, and the powers and the enforced blindness really aren't helping. I should talk to him. I haven't talked to him in days. Every time I try he's less than responsive. After a while I figured he just wanted to be left alone, so I left him alone. I can't rid myself of the suspicion that he probably needs someone now more than ever, though. It's impossible to tell with him.

I gritted my teeth. "You stay _away_ from Scott, you hear me?"

He smirked like the frequently irritating thirteen, nearly fourteen year old that he is. "Do you _love_ him?"

"Get _out_ of here, Bobby!"

He did exactly that, laughing the whole way down the hall. Grumbling, I retreated into my room, telekinetically slamming the door with great gusto. Possibly a little too much gusto, as the sound echoed throughout the halls, loud enough to wake everyone else up. Strangely, I found that I didn't care. At all. Maybe I'd care a little more if slamming doors so loudly it sounds like something has just exploded was even remotely out of the ordinary. Or, if anything even mildly weird was at all out of the ordinary.

Nothing is out of the ordinary here.

Just one of the many perks of going to a mutant boarding school.

I collapsed back onto my bed and stared aimlessly at the ceiling for a while.

I don't know what to do.

I really, honestly don't know what to do.

Slowly, with quite a bit of rattling, the drawer of my bedside table pulled out and I lifted up the Scott's glasses that I'd stolen and hadn't found an opportunity to try out yet. I hovered them above me, turning them over and over as I thought about it.

The lenses aren't even scratched. A barrage of energy like that completely annihilated everything in his room, but these glasses, these lenses, they're in just as good condition as they were when I first found them buried under all the clutter on Scott's desk and picked them up.

I'm clutching at straws with this.

I know I am.

They could've survived the desolation of his emerging powers for any reason, not necessarily because they're immune or resistant. I don't…I don't want to get his hopes up only to immediately snatch it away. I don't want to do that to him. I _can't_ do that to him. But I can hardly leave him to suffer when the solution could be right here, hovering just above me.

"What are these even _made_ of?" I muttered to myself as I stared mindlessly at them. One thing's for sure, it's _not_ red tinted glass. Glass would've shattered. It would've been scratched, at the very least. So it has to be something else. Something that can stand being hit with punches from the punch dimension without being completely obliterated. Maybe. Unless I'm hallucinating and clutching at straws and generally being unhelpfully optimistic.

But if there's a chance…just a small, tiny, barely even a scrap of a chance that it is in fact possible for Scott to see again, shouldn't I take it? Isn't anything better than what he's forcing himself to go through right now? Dare I risk destroying him on the off chance that my vague suspicions might just be right? Do I really want to do that? Take that risk? Do I really think it's going to be worth it?

Slowly, I sat up and picked the glasses out of the air, gingerly brushing the dust off with my fingers. They're thick and they're clunky and they're heavy, certainly by no means at all comfortable to wear for any prolonged period of time. I don't know what they're made of. I don't know how it could be at all possible that a specialist miraculously predicted that Scott would one day start shoot constant, uncontrollable deadly eye beams of doom. I don't know how any of that is possible.

But I need to know.

I need to find out.

Slowly, I slipped off my bed and moved over to the door, cracking it open and peeking out, making a point of checking for ice first. Unsurprisingly, it was still there, coating the hallway. Bobby never cleans up any of his messes. He's a right pain in the ass to live with, even without the frequent randomly appearing, slow melting ice lakes flooding the halls. I suppose I'm fortunate in the fact that I'm yet to find a household situation that cannot somehow be solved via telekinesis. I'm not sure how I'd manage otherwise.

Still. Having to do this all the time is a pain.

The ice may as well have covered the entire west wing of the mansion, considering how long I floated around two or three inches in the air just to avoid having to step on it. It continued all the way to Scott's room and beyond. My lip curled as I saw it. Okay. So, on the off chance that Scott ever actually managed to summon the courage to leave the room in which he's confined himself, he'll immediately slip, completely blind, on ice.

I'm going to murder Bobby. Or at least, not back him up in the Danger Room.

But not right now.

I have more pressing issues to deal with.

"Your mother called again this morning," I called the second I opened the door, not bothering to knock or let him know it's me or anything. Surely he can tell. "She's really worried about you."

"I don't care," came the short, irritated reply.

Of course you do. You just don't want to admit it.

He was sitting next to the window, leaning his head on it, not moving. Seems he's always hanging out near the window these days; anything that gets him just that little bit closer to natural light without actually having to leave the room. The makeshift blindfold he'd pulled over his eyes to prevent himself from opening them remained tightly in place – he'd been so meticulous about it. I hadn't realised just how much I'd relied on his eyes to tell his expression until he started covering them. If I thought he was hard to read without telepathy before, it was an impossibility now. If he hadn't spoken to me thirty seconds ago, I'd doubt he was conscious at all.

I sighed and leaned against the door until it clicked shut. "How long are you going to do this?"

He didn't answer. I don't know why I expected him to.

"Because if the answer to that question is 'forever' or anything more than 'a week, maybe', I really don't think this is going to work out. Sitting in here sulking isn't helping anyone, least of all yourself."

His silence continued. I folded my arms and huffed a little.

"Call your mom, Scott."

He jerked in surprise at my sudden change in subject. "Wha- …why?"

"Because every time you don't pick up the phone, she calls me in a panic. At least have the basic human decency to assure your own mother that you're not dead."

For a short while. He looked like he was going to answer, or argue, or something – but in the end he decided against it and we both lapsed into a silence. I tried to think of something to say, some way to bring up what I wanted to bring up, but found no way of doing it delicately. How do I even phrase it? You know those glasses? Well I found them and I think because they're not utterly destroyed like everything else you own…

Ugh. I'm so bad at this.

What kind of specialist even-

Wait. The _specialist._

The ever so shady specialist I don't know anything about. That's my way into the conversation.

"Tell me about the specialist," I asked finally. "The one who gave you those glasses."

Scott's head snapped up almost immediately. He visibly paled, pressing himself as hard against the wall as he could, as if he was trying to get away from something. His hands started shaking and he began rubbing his wrists vigorously. My eyes narrowed. He didn't even seem to be aware of what he was doing, it was almost like…like it was some kind of conditioned reaction. I decided not to make note of it. He's probably had a nightmare or something recently. Wouldn't be all that surprising. He's had a lot of nightmares since coming here.

"Dr Essex? Why?" he asked in a surprisingly calm, even voice considering his behaviour just a moment prior.

"I have a theory," I said cryptically.

He shrugged. "There's nothing to tell. I saw him a few times. He said the glasses would help the headaches."

"Did they?"

"I wouldn't know. I didn't wear them," he sighed. "Does it matter? They were probably obliterated along with everything else in my room."

I looked at the glasses in question that I held. "As a matter of fact, they weren't."

Scott seemed surprised by my words. "How do you know that?"

"Because while you were being all blind and panicky, I went on a quest to salvage whatever was left intact," I told him dryly. "I have to hand it you Scott, anyone who can take out a full sized industrial crane when their powers are only just beginning to manifest properly is a force to be reckoned with."

"…thanks?"

"The fact that you can't control them sort of makes you scarier too."

"Jean, you're _not_ helping."

"And keeping all that in mind, don't you find it a little odd that glasses that were given to you by a specialist well before you even knew you were a mutant survived being hit with that much force? Glasses, which were supposed to help your headaches, that can survive a blast beam from your eyes? That you got before _any of this actually happened?"_

He went completely still as he realised what I was saying. "But that- that's not…it's a coincidence."

"The lenses aren't even _scratched,_ Scott. Enough force to destroy a crane, and they're not the least bit damaged."

"It's a _coincidence,"_ he insisted.

"That's why I'm calling it a theory and not a proven fact," I remarked.

He didn't try to argue any further. He was still trying very hard not to buy into it, but he didn't try to argue anymore. He knew I had the means to change his mind by force. I wouldn't, but I could, and he was entirely aware of that. We both were.

"So…" I began, trailing off into silence.

"So what?"

"So, come outside and test a theory with me," I said, grabbing his wrist and pulling him up to his feet and then to the door with more force than I'd thought I was physically capable of. Unless I was using telekinesis on him without realising it.

He wasn't all that keen. "What- I…you can't possibly- it's not going to work! _Jean!"_

I ignored his protests and continued to carefully but forcefully guide him to the door. I have to know. I have to find out. I have to do this. The only safe place to do this is outside, so that's where we'll go. I wrenched it open and immediately and without thinking, lifted both of us into the air.

"H-hey! Jean! What are you doing?"

"Sorry, I know you didn't want me to ever do this again, but you're blind and Bobby may have flooded the halls with ice," I explained quickly.

"I-I don't…this is…"

"It's okay Scott," I assured him. "I'm the one doing it, and I know where I'm going."

But god knows it's difficult to levitate two people at once. Focusing on one thing at a time can be hard. It's been a while since I've strained my abilities. I'd honestly forgotten that it was still possible for me to strain myself, considering how much easier I'd been finding everything. Scott seemed to be making an effort to be as still as possible, apparently figuring it would be easier on me that way. I smiled a little. He has no idea what he's doing and somehow he's still trying to make things easier for me.

He's so bizarrely sweet at the weirdest of times.

The moment we cleared the ice we were faced with another problem – stairs.

"Are you okay with stairs, or do you want to levitate you down?" I asked quietly.

I'm sure that if it hadn't been for the blindfold, he'd have given me a disgusted look.

"I'm fine. I can manage."

"Are you just saying that, or do you mean it?"

He didn't answer me, simply reached out in search of the bannister. I very sneakily used telekinesis to guide his hand to it, hopefully without him noticing. If he did, he didn't say anything about it. Instead, he tentatively began to make his way down, trying to avoid making the fact that he was shaking obvious and not succeeding much in that endeavour.

"Tell me when I get to end."

I really wanted to make a sarcastic remark, but bit my tongue. Neither of us need snark right now. "Okay."

I got down the stairs a hell of a lot faster than he did, which came as a surprise to literally no one. I stood motionless as I watched him very slowly, very carefully, very cautiously edge his way down. I knew he didn't want help, even if I offered it. It didn't stop me from offering anyway.

"Do you need some help?"

"I'm _fine,_ Jean," he snapped. "How many steps left?"

"Like, three. You're nearly there."

He seemed perhaps a little overeager to leave the peril of the stairs behind him. He overstepped just a fraction and would've slipped and fallen flat on his back had he not managed to grasp the bannister in time to save himself. I walked over to him and helped pull him back up onto his feet, vaguely amused but not saying anything.

When he recovered, I steered him outside, to the middle of the frankly huge lawn and made it so we were facing away from the mansion, out at the lake. Don't want to accidentally destroy things and risk killing people if I'm wrong. I don't think I am, because my tirade that was supposed to convince Scott only really succeeded in convincing me even more, but I want to risk as little as possible.

A tree or two is okay.

The mansion and the lives of everyone inside it is not.

Bearing this in mind, I reached up and went to pull the blindfold off. He pulled violently away from me the second he realised what I was doing.

"Jean are you _nuts?"_ he demanded, his hands flying up to check if the knot had been in anyway compromised before tightening it a little.

"You have to trust me," I told him softly.

"But I- you've seen…you _know_ what…"

"That's why we're outside," I told him. "We're testing a theory, remember?"

"I didn't think you'd test it like _this!"_

"How else did you think we were going to do this?" I asked seriously. "Scott, honestly."

There was a long pause as he considered this. I wanted to just yank the blindfold off, but I knew that was the wrong way to go about it. I don't want to make him freak out. I've seen him freak out. I'd rather not repeat the experience. So I waited.

Eventually and with a heavy sigh, he pulled off the blindfold, revealing his eyes, still clenched shut. His breathing quickened just the slightest bit as he fought back the panic that threatened to flood his mind. Gingerly, I unfolded the glasses and very carefully put them on for him, feeling like a complete idiot the entire time I did so. After I was done, I pulled back so I was behind him. Just in case it didn't work and I was imagining things. Rather than focus on the fact that my reputation for solving problems was on the line, I instead opted to watch Scott. He was terrified. That much I could tell from watching him for just a few seconds. He was certainly shaking quite badly. I held his hand gently in an effort to calm him.

"Breathe," I whispered to him.

He never used to need my help to calm down. But then, I suppose a hell of a lot of things have changed for him in an extremely short space of time. I can hardly blame him for not being able to control himself and his emotions quite like he used to. In fact, I should probably be thankful that he's being more expressive for once in his life.

He inhaled shakily. "This isn't going to work."

"Are your eyes open?"

"Of course not."

"In that case, I think it's a little early to be calling it, don't you?"

I really should've expected the silence he gave me in reply.

"Open your eyes Scott," I encouraged him in as light a tone as I could manage. "There's nothing in front of you. Even if it doesn't work, it's going to be okay."

He shook his head violently.

"Scott," I called his name gently. "It's okay. You can do it."

"Y-yeah…" he mumbled. "Right. O-okay. I can- are you _sure_ there's nothing in front of me?"

"I'm sure," I said. "Nothing but grass, trees, and the lake."

He paused, remaining absolutely still for what seemed like way too long. I waited, for some sign of, well, _something._ Anything. A raging torrent of bright red concussive energy of death and doom. Instead, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Has he even got his eyes open, or is he just too scared to go through with it?

My question was answered when Scott whirled around to face me, eyebrows raised and looking like he was in shock.

"I-it…I can…b-but this- …this is…"

He continued gibbering like that for a good while, unable to articulate anything cohesive. He was grinning. He was euphoric. He was happier than I'd ever seen him before in my life. For once, he wasn't making any effort to hide his feelings. He was so overwhelmed by it all that his legs buckled beneath him and he fell onto his hands and knees, breathing hard, just staring at the ground. I knelt down next to him. He looked up at me, face flushed, still grinning like a complete dorky idiot.

_There's_ the eight year old I used to know.

"Hey," I greeted him quietly.

"H-hey," he replied shakily. "Jean, I can- I can see you."

I beamed. I couldn't help it. He was being so endearingly dorky and if he doesn't stop this soon he'll be the death of me.

Then, all of a sudden, he sat up, his fingers tracing the black frames of his glasses. "These aren't normal glass. If they're even glass at all."

"Of course not. Didn't you ever look at them before?"

Scott shook his head. "Didn't see the point. Funnily enough, 'these will be useful for when my mutant powers manifest' wasn't what went through my head when I got them."

"And what are you thinking now? 'Thank god for Jean Grey and her wacky ideas'?"

He smiled ever so slightly. "Something like that."


	10. Chapter Ten

Now that Scott was able to see without destroying the Institute and everything and one in it, I had, perhaps foolishly, thought he would try to associate with the rest of the inhabitants. I had thought that maybe Professor Xavier had given him enough confidence to be able to trust himself again. Sure, I expected him to be withdrawn – we had _all_ been that way when we first came here – but he never even tried to interact. He would go jogging around the grounds by himself, or find himself a quiet corner in the library to read, or shut himself up in his room for hours on end. The only time he ever actually engaged in conversation was when someone asked him a direct question at meal times. Other than that, he kept entirely to himself.

And it worried me. It worried me more than the rest of his plethora of problems. More than even my _own_ plethora of problems. He's irritatingly good at making people worry about him with very little effort. It's starting to become downright infuriating.

"Scott?" I called his name as I knocked softly on his bedroom door. "Can I come in?"

I paused for a couple of seconds, and when I got no reply, I cracked the door open and peeked inside.

He was sitting cross legged near the window, pouring over some textbooks and writing notes occasionally – totally absorbed in his study. I stepped inside and leaned against the door until it clicked shut behind me. His head snapped up at the sound of the door closing, and for a short while we both just stared at each other. I watched him, trying to imagine him without those dark red, impenetrable lenses and largely failing. He hasn't even had them that long and already they've become an intrinsic part of his existence to the point I'm finding it hard to imagine him without them.

I blinked a few times and tried to focus on something else. My eyes drifted to the textbook in his hands.

"You're doing homework?"

"Well yeah," he told me dryly. "I have to keep up with school somehow."

He is actually the worst at being a teenager. It's like he doesn't even have a concept of this point in his life being the time where it's probably most acceptable to go a little off the rails. It's like he doesn't understand that there is such a thing as _life_ elsewhere than on the recommended path. I'm struggling to decide if I'm just annoyed at this or genuinely impressed. I mean, he's nearly sixteen and I don't think he's ever had a real argument with his parents. He's always gotten solid marks in school. He minds his manners and is constantly trying his best to keep an open mind and be as respectful to other people all the time. Sometimes I wonder if he's even a real person, or some weird adult idolisation of what a teenager should be.

"You literally _live_ in a school. I'm not sure struggling to keep up is going to be much of a problem."

He seemed unfazed by my comment. "Still have to do schoolwork, don't I?"

Seriously. Worst. Teenager. _Ever._

"Do you ever do anything else?" I questioned, arms folded.

"I go out running sometimes."

I folded my arms. "Let me rephrase. Do you ever do anything _fun?"_

He arched an eyebrow at me. "Maybe not anything that fits your definition of fun."

And he says it like he even has one to begin with. Scott's idea of _fun_ is control and efficiency. That's what he's always striving for, what he always _has_ strived for. He's methodical and precise, and treats everything in life like it's a game of chess. A game he's determined to win. Maybe I can coax him out of this room with a game of chess. He'll annihilate me. There's no doubt about it. The only way I might get out of such a challenge alive is if I cheat. And he'll _know_ if I cheat.

"Scott. Come on. All you do is study. Don't you ever want to go outside?"

"I _do_ go outside."

"Outside the grounds, though? Outside into the real world?" I questioned. "Don't you ever go stir crazy locking yourself up like this?"

"No."

_"Scott…"_

"I'm fine, Jean. I don't know why you're so worried about me."

I folded my arms. "Because you make it so easy to worry about you."

He groaned loudly. "How many times do I have to tell you that I'm _okay?"_

"You're not _acting_ okay," I argued. "You're acting the way you do when you're desperately trying to avoid something."

"I'm not."

"Don't make me read your mind, Scott Summers."

He seemed to freeze completely at my threat. I could feel the cold, icy calm that washed over his mind as he tried to steel himself from any sort of telepathic attack from me. My eyebrows rose just a little at that reaction – he's got the right idea, at least. With a little further instruction, he could probably develop a pretty formidable mental defence without too much effort. It also made me suspicious. Usually, when people are worried about something, particularly something as important as a potential attack on their own minds, they tend to panic and have a harder time focusing themselves. Scott's not generally one to panic so I guess it's in character for him to react this way but, well, something about it whispers…experience.

The possible implications of that being true are a whole lot scarier than his eye beams of death and doom could ever be. No to mention it probably explains why he's so on edge whenever telepathy is even mentioned.

And, being the idiot that I was, I shrugged it off and pushed it out of my mind.

"Have you called home, at least?" I asked. "Told your parents the wonderful news?"

He exhaled sharply. "Told them the wonderful news that I don't have to force myself to be blind for the rest of forever, at the cost of being rendered almost completely colour-blind and having to wear kind of uncomfortable glasses at all times? _That_ wonderful news?"

My eyes narrowed at the tone of his voice. It was harsh, angry, and bitter. It was the exact opposite of what I wanted to hear. What I had hoped to hear. I'd thought we'd gotten through the bulk of the angst. I'd thought we were past this, ready to start embracing the many quirks of being a mutant in a place where it's safe and acceptable to be so, to let your powers loose once in a while.

…probably a bad idea for him, considering everything.

And here I thought _I _lacked control. I thought it was because of the way I am, the way I think and act and how my personality is. Scott's the most controlled person I know, to the point he's anal retentive about it, obsessing over every tiny, insignificant detail of any and every possible situation. If _anyone_ can have perfect control over their powers at all times, it should be him. It _should_ be him.

"Don't be bitter, Scott. Which would you rather?"

"Right now? I'd actually rather _no powers at all._ Bizarrely, I did find life somewhat easier when I wasn't risking obliterating everything around me just by opening my eyes."

I folded my arms. "Oh, and you think it isn't that way for anyone else? That we all _chose_ our powers, and somehow you missed out on that? You think Warren doesn't mind just how freaking much he has to work at tying his wings down just to look a little bit normal? You think Bobby enjoys freezing everything he touches all the time, the looks and remarks Hanks gets constantly, or that I enjoy having emotionally dependant powers that have and still are developing too fast for me to able to control properly? It's just _genetics,_ Scott. You've got about as much control over that as you do your optic blasts."

He winced at that. I wasn't sure I cared.

"I-"

"No. Shut up. Don't sit there whining and moaning about the hand life dealt you and how everything is too hard. You don't have that _right,_ Scott. Not here," I snarled. "You're a mutant with a sucky power and a messed up history. Congratulations. We're _all_ mutants with sucky powers and messed up histories here."

I almost immediately bit my lip. That came out a whole lot harsher than I thought. Scott looked away, and for a terrifying moment, I doubted he would ever speak to me again.

"You're…you're right. Sorry," he mumbled almost incoherently. "I'm…still adjusting, I guess."

We both stood there in silence for what seemed like much too long. I stood there, utterly motionless, awkward and silent after I'd just yelled at him, trying to figure out what to do, where to go next from here. This isn't what I'd wanted to happen. I'm just…so sick of complaining. I want to _do_ something. I want to show the world that we aren't monsters to be feared. If people won't believe that on their own, I want to give them a reason to believe it. Give them a reason to stop generalising all mutants based on the actions of a few.

And then what, Jean? What happens then? You become a superhero? High risk, high combat, high mortality rate, no income…yeah, that's sounding like an astoundingly viable career option. I can see it now – Jean Grey, the Mutant Avenger. Fighting for justice, peace and tolerance. Fighting to restore order in a world gone mad. We could form a team.

Ha. Don't be an idiot.

I feel bad for yelling.

Not for what I said. Just for the tone I said it in. I didn't need to be so aggressive. It's just he's been so mopey and it upsets me to see him this way. It upsets me to see anyone act this way. I don't want to see it anymore. In me, in anyone.

And just like that, I decided it was to leave the mansion and explore the wonders Westchester had to offer. Which was, admittedly, not much. And the little there was wasn't too terribly exciting. But it was something outside the grounds, and that was enough. For now.

"Let's go," I piped up suddenly, taking Scott by surprise when I gripped his wrist and pulled him out of his chair.

"Jean, I'm-"

"You're not busy," I interrupted, continuing to tug him outside and carefully resisting the growing urge to telekinetically pick him up and hurl him out the door, "you're reading a book and doing schoolwork that isn't even necessary. That's not _busy._ That's passing time. There are better ways to do that. So let's go."

"Go _where?"_ he demanded when I finally got him out of his bedroom – which was possibly my crowning achievement of the entire week.

"I don't know. Out. We could go get lunch. Do some shopping. No one ever comes shopping with me."

All of a sudden, he smirked. "Gee, I wonder _why."_

"I don't appreciate your tone or what it's implying, Mr Summers," I growled. "I like shopping. It relaxes me."

"I know. You just don't know what you're like."

I huffed a little. "It doesn't have to be stuff for me. We can buy things for you. Get you a new pair of glasses. Better looking ones, with better frames. Ones that aren't so thick and heavy. More comfortable ones."

His smile faltered just a little, but picked up again very quickly. "I'm sure they're really easy to come by. Ruby quartz lenses are all the rage now, I hear. Not hopelessly obscure at all."

Sarcasm. Well, it's step up from a dull, disinterested monotone, at least. Maybe, one day, I'll hear him say something that isn't dry or scathing. One day. I live in hope it'll happen. I have to. A lifetime of hearing nothing else is more terrifying than the prospect of people deciding to try to wipe out mutants completely. Which might actually happen. I don't know. Who even knows?

But something about his quip caught my attention.

My eyes narrowed. "Ruby quartz?"

"That's what I said."

"They're made of ruby quartz?"

"Apparently so."

"When did you find this out?"

He shrugged in a thoroughly nonchalant manner. "Not long after…well, you know, when I started wearing them. The Professor looked at them. And Hank, when he got curious. And an optometrist friend of the Professor's. And maybe four or five other people. They're ruby quartz. Trust me."

"That must've been fun," I commented dryly, trying to show him that he wasn't the only one who knew how to be adequately sarcastic.

"Oh yeah. Having to keep my eyes closed again after finally getting the ability to see safely back. It was a dream come true."

I love how he replies to my snark with further snark. No one else here does that – not to the same extent as Scott. It's nice knowing I can be rude and mean when I joke and there is in fact a person here who will understand that it's not genuine. Maybe that's just a side effect of having been friends from before everything happened. Maybe we just know each other really well. I don't know. Maybe a lot of things.

And I lost track of what I was saying, as well as where I was going.

Forward. Out. Somewhere other than this – which is possibly a part of my continuing crusade to avoid Warren as much as humanly possible as well as my effort to make Scott experience the world and not hide himself away in a dark corner forever. It's…not the greatest excuse ever, but it's one of my better ones. Thankfully, Warren seems to be avoiding me as well.

We'll…we'll get back to the point of being friends again, won't we? Eventually? That will happen, right? _Right?_

"I'm going to hate this hill on the way back, aren't I?" Scott sighed, taking note of the fact that our route had taken a fairly steep downhill turn.

I didn't bother to try to lift his spirits on the matter. He likes being realistic. Maybe slightly on the more pessimistic side of realism, but realistic nonetheless.

"Yes."

"Good to know."

We didn't say anything more for a while, and I stared aimlessly ahead, although the sun reflected off his glasses and it was glaring right in my peripheral vision. I squinted and blinked uncomfortably, and looked away a little further.

There was silence, for a while. And then;

"Hey, Jean?"

"Mm?"

"Are you…avoiding Warren?"

I jumped in surprise at the sudden sound of his voice. "Am I _what?"_

He kept his head down. "You always tend to leave the room when he enters, and make a point of being as far away from him as you can when you're forced together. I might've assumed."

I sighed loudly and rolled my shoulders back. "I…guess so? It's just _weird-"_

"You used to date, didn't you?"

I blinked in surprise. "What makes you think that?"

Again, he shrugged, maybe trying just a little too hard to appear unaffected by the conversation. He only does that when he's trying really very hard not to react. When he's consciously trying to bury his emotions, as opposed to _sub_consciously burying them. And that, just in and of itself, said something. What exactly, I didn't know yet. I had to resist the urge to dive into his mind to find out. I need to get better at carefully poking people into giving me answers instead of just ransacking their mind. It's less traumatising for all involved, for one thing. It's also a lot easier to ransack the mind of someone you know well, someone whose reactions you can anticipate and account for. Which sounds a hell of a lot more conniving and evil than I intended.

"Scott?"

"He just looks like the kind of person you'd date, that's all."

What do you know of the kind of people I date, Scott? Until about a month ago, we hadn't talked in something like four, five years. We were both yet to hit puberty back then. Then I got boobs and he got tall and we both ended up with powers and here we are. But he still shouldn't know anything about the kind of person I'd date.

"That's very astute of you," I conceded. "And here I thought _I_ was the telepath."

"So…you did?"

"Oh, fine. Yes, we did. Briefly."

"How long is _briefly?"_

"Just long enough for it to be a bit too unbearably awkward," I replied. "Why are you so curious about my love life? Are you jealous?"

He looked away. "Jealous would mean I'm worried he's going to take something of mine, which isn't the case."

I gaped wordlessly at him for a time. "Did you _seriously_ just correct my grammar?"

"Maybe?"

"Okay, now I _know_ something's up."

"What, because I corrected you?"

"Because usually you know how annoying it is to be corrected so you avoid doing it unless you're not thinking about it and you're only not thinking about it when you're obsessing over something vitally important," I pointed out.

"It's nothing."

_"Really,_ Scott? Nothing? Just like how your headaches were nothing – until your powers exploded all over the place and destroyed both your bedroom _and_ an industrial crane?"

He winced at my words and his hands balled into tight fists. Almost immediately, a bunch of images flashed through my mind as he remembered the entire experience. I gripped his arm tightly in reaction, having been caught off guard by it. He's been so good when it comes to avoiding projecting lately. It surprised me.

"Are you okay?" I asked gently, pulling myself as far away from his mind as I could get.

His knuckles whitened just a little before he exhaled quietly and relaxed.

"It's…not something I like thinking about."

I smiled a little sadly. "It could've been worse."

"Yeah? How do you figure that? I was under the impression it went about as badly as possible."

I shrugged. "You could've killed people. Gone to jail. Gotten sued for millions in property damages. Ended up running for your life on the streets. Completely blind. That's worse."

"I guess so."

"And even then, all kinds of horrible things can happen to young people on their own," I said. "You could've placed trust in someone who betrayed that trust and abused you. Tortured you. Experimented on you, even, because of your powers. Tried to control you, and use you for their own personal gain. If you didn't get yourself murdered first."

"Yeah, okay, you've made your point."

I grinned. "Just as long as you understand, Scott. Things could've gone a _lot_ worse."


	11. Chapter Eleven

Both the needle and thread shook violently as I tried to calm myself down and focus entirely on the task at hand – which was probably why they were shaking so much. I hate this exercise. It's so small. So fiddly. Threading a needle is something I can barely manage with my _hands,_ let alone my _mind. _You need me to pick up a bus and hurl it halfway across town? Sure thing. Easy. I can manage that. But a _needle and thread?_ Not for your life. You'd sooner have the aforementioned bus land on you.

"Focus Jean," Professor Xavier called quietly, in his usual _I-know-you-can-do-it-I-believe-in-you_ tone that very quickly lost its intended purpose. Instead of being encouraging, it just sounded annoying, a reminder that I've been trying and failing at this relatively menial task that should be so easy I don't even have to think about it. It should be just a casual flick of my mind and there, done. It _should_ be so quick and easy and simple that I only had to try once to get it perfectly right. I should be so good at it that I've thousands of scraps of fabric with every kind of stitch imaginable, all done with perfect precision and attention to detail.

I gritted my teeth in annoyance, mostly at myself for not being able to do this. I should be able to do this. I could cause this whole building to implode if I wanted – so why the _hell_ can't I thread a needle and stab it through some fabric? It's too little, too fiddly. It's too hard. I can't do this. I can't. This is stupid.

"This is pointless!" I had to stop myself from screaming, sending the needle, the thread and the fabric I was supposed to be stitching patterns into flying across the room until they hit the wall with more force than you'd think such small simple things would be capable of. Normally we'd be in the Danger Room rather than Professor Xavier's study because of mishaps like this. It's basically what I'm famous for at the Institute. But lately I've been encouraged to try using telekinesis in different rooms, different environments. That, and the Danger Room may still be in an unusable state from when Professor Xavier managed to convince a certain fifteen year old boy to try to control his now totally confirmed to be uncontrollable powers. As such, the Danger Room is out of commission and Bobby is a little terrified of Scott – Warren, meanwhile, is a bit wary of him and I think Hank is mostly intrigued. Not to mention, now I'm in the study and all I can do is grow increasingly worried that Scott's not the only person this week who's going to punch a hole in Professor Xavier's repairs fund.

Maybe I should be worried about the fact that no one appears to have actually spoken to or even _seen_ Scott since that happened.

Maybe.

"You must keep trying, Jean."

I gnashed my teeth angrily and my hands balled into fists. "What's the point? I can pick up a freaking _car_ just _fine._ Multiple cars. At once. I'm beyond this. Shouldn't we be working on my telepathy?"

Professor Xavier simply placed his hands in his lap, keeping his expression straight and impassive as my anger caused everything in the room to start rattling dangerously, threatening to break just as I was threatening to lose it. I could feel him in my mind, a cool, placid presence, trying to soothe me without me noticing. I immediately threw up a wall of fiery anger to keep him out. He might be able to get away with quietly manipulating everyone else by getting inside their heads, but not me. I'll make him fight first.

"While control of telepathy is important, telekinesis is your primary ability and therefore the one we must work on," he told me calmly. "They are still developing Jean, and far more quickly than is safe at present. It's vital you learn to keep it under control."

"And how does stitching help with that?" I snarled, in no mood to be placated.

"While it's true you've become quite powerful, you're still imprecise," he answered, his voice remaining quiet and placid – possibly because at this point he was entirely aware that I was trying to elicit some kind of audible change in his tone and he wasn't going to give me the satisfaction.

If he got irritated with me he'd let me leave, and stop insisting that I do this. He knew it. We both knew it. But he has some kind of inhuman amount of patience, which I suppose is required if you're the kind of person who decides to set up a school for mutant teenagers – some harsh, some willingly rude, some dropkicks, some snotty kids from upper class families, _all_ with weird powers and raging hormones. It'd be admirable, if it wasn't so downright _annoying._

"Maybe that's just the way my telekinesis _is."_

"It's that way because you are yet to refine it, master it. Levitating and throwing is but _one_ application of your powers, Jean. You must learn not to just have things within your grasp, but to manipulate them once they are. Learn that, and you could become a formidable mutant indeed. But our primary concern is control."

I resisted the urge to groan and walk out right there and then. He's forever going _on_ about how I have more power than I realise and the kind of limitless potential that gives me. Limitless potential that cannot and will not always be an asset to me. The fact that it's growing so quickly is dangerous enough. I have to learn. I have to keep up with it, or something terrible might happen, or so he keeps telling me. I can't afford to let it spiral out of control. It's like he's worried it'll eat me from the inside out if I'm not careful.

Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. That's what he says. Be careful, Jean. We've no idea what could happen.

I'll admit, powers growing well beyond my ability to control them sounds disastrous…at the very least. Cataclysmic might be a better word. So I have to trust Professor Xavier knows what he's doing and try my best to do everything he says, to follow his instructions without argument and to the best of my ability. For my sake, and the sake of everyone around me.

And now all I'm doing is repeating the words of Dad's usual _you-need-to-stay-at-the-Institute_ lecture.

"It's too hard," I complained. "It's too small, too fiddly. I just can't focus it that much."

"Your abilities come from your mind, so they reflect your mental state," he said patiently. "If you're convinced that you'll fail, it will of course be more difficult for you."

I clenched my jaw and balled my hands into fists and generally made a very obvious display of me tensing and not wanting to do what I knew he was going to ask me to do.

Powerful, but imprecise. I have a feeling I'm going to hear those words in relation to me kind of a lot.

Slowly, reluctantly, I let out a long exhale and tried again. I tried to convince myself that it was possible, that I was able to do it, but nothing seemed any different. It was hard to focus on just the thread itself for any amount of time, let alone one specific part of it long enough to thread it through the needle. And this is just the _first_ part of the exercise. If I can't perform the first part, how am I supposed expect I can do the rest? How do I know that I'm actually capable of doing an adequate job?

Once again, the items I was focusing so hard on flew in random directions as my frustration peaked. I made a cry of rage and slumped in my chair, which had begun to lift maybe half an inch off the floor before I realised what I was doing.

How does this work? I can barely move a simple pencil across a room, let alone at a safe speed – something Scott has seen and can attest to – but I can make heavy furniture rise off the floor almost without thinking.

"I can't – it won't focus, it's just so exhausting just trying to move such small things and nothing else," I mumbled, burying my face in my hands. "I've gone backwards."

"You haven't gone backwards Jean," Professor Xavier told me, wheeling himself forwards and clasping my hands in his. "All that's happened is a power fluctuation, possibly triggered by that nightmare."

I folded my arms, unconvinced. "You're saying it's going to get out control every time I dream?"

"Not necessarily," he said. "In fact, that would be highly unlikely. For now, we need to work with what we have. You may want to consider-"

"If you're suggesting you lock even more of my powers, the answer is _no,"_ I snapped, possibly a little too ferociously. "I'll keep what I have."

And without another word, I got up and stormed out of the study.

The sound from the unnatural force with which I slammed the door behind me echoed throughout the hallways, probably tipping everyone off that my little training session hadn't gone nearly as smoothly as I'd hoped. I stood there, utterly motionless for a short while, glaring aimlessly at the patch of wall directly in front of me, breathing heavily as I tried to quash my anger and frustration at my own lack of control. I should be better at this. It's been five years since I started here. I should be getting the hang of it. Improving. I _was_ improving, until I left. Until I had that nightmare it messed me up. But I've had plenty of nightmares before, and my powers never reacted like that. Then, all of a sudden, I destroyed everything in my room and sent the debris whizzing around in a violent tornado and I was powerless to stop it.

Maybe that was a sign. That it's getting stronger. A sign that I can't relax.

What happens, then? What am I meant to do when it becomes too much? What if I reach that dreaded full potential? What'll happen to me then? Why does that prospect scare me so much?

Ugh. I don't want to think about this. The alternative is not something I want to consider. I'll just have to learn and deal with what I have.

"Tough day?"

I whipped around to see Warren casually leaning against the wall, watching me with slightly raised eyebrows. For a while I just stood there, utterly speechless, surprised to see him there.

I can't believe Scott just looked at him and _assumed_ he was the kind of person I'd date. I mean, he was _right,_ but that doesn't make it any better or less presumptuous of him. So maybe Warren is tall, tanned, blonde, intelligent, charismatic and suave…and rich. Like, wow. _So_ wealthy. But that's _beside_ the _point._ I don't see how he can look like the kind of person I'd date when I really haven't dated enough to people to be even able to say I have a type. I don't know what my type is. There's no way in hell Scott does.

…am I _really_ getting upset about this? Over something Scott said _nearly two weeks ago_ now? Have I honestly been quietly stewing on it this whole time?

Oh my god. I'm worse than Scott_ himself._ I didn't realise that was even possible.

Warren's the kind of guy any stereotypical girl would probably date. He probably just based his assumption off that, and then worded himself incorrectly. He certainly seemed a bit flustered at the time.

About _what?_

What in this _world_ has the capability to get _Scott Summers_ flustered and acting all weird and distracted?

Stop.

Jean, just _stop._ Stop thinking. Now. Stop it.

"Hank ordered pizza," he told me after a short silence. "Come have some, yeah? You could probably use a break."

"Warren, I'm not…" I began jerkily.

"It's just pizza," he insisted. "Well, pizza and probably being social, but you _like_ that."

I sighed loudly, but nodded and followed him to the kitchen, or the dining room, or the hall, or wherever they'd decided to do this. Pizza was the boys' solution to just about everything. The amount of times we've all ended up sitting around eating pizza because someone left the grounds and got a scathing, bigoted remark or someone's family wasn't as accepting as they'd hoped or someone's goldfish died or someone's powers did a weird thing or whatever excuse anyone felt like making…and that's just the bad times. On other, happier occasions it could range from Warren's dad actually sent him a letter or answered the phone, to Bobby finishing a level on a game he'd been struggling at. Or Hank made an unexpected breakthrough. Anything, really. The people here really, _really_ like pizza. Like, a lot.

But I could probably use it. It's not a bad little tradition, not by any means. It may do more good than I think. It may help more than I realise. There's no problem in the world that can't be solved by pizza.

I entered the kitchen to find the very familiar sight of a couple of open boxes on the table, and both Bobby and Hank already seated. I slid into the closest chair and quickly took a slice without saying anything, while Warren opted to stand. His wings make sitting a tad awkward at the best of times, even when they're tied down like now.

"Ugh. Anchovies? _Really, _Hank? You just had to get the one with _anchovies?"_ Bobby complained loudly, staring down at the pizza immediately in front of him with a look of disgust.

"They're simply little fish, my icy friend," Hank told him pleasantly as he chomped down the slice he was holding in about three seconds flat.

"Which would be totally fine if I actually _liked_ seafood."

"I'll be sure to take that into account next time it falls to me to order pizza."

Warren let out a shout of laughter. "Or _maybe_ we'll just get the popsicle to order next time."

"Who're you calling 'popsicle', _angel?" _Bobby snapped back, before pausing for a short moment, straightening and becoming thoughtful. "Hm. That's actually pretty good. That could be a codename."

Warren stared at him incredulously. "Pretty good? Bobby, that's stating the obvious."

"Yeah, but that's what superhero codenames _do,_ isn't it?" he asked, getting increasingly excited about this by the second. "The Amazing Angel! Or…the _Avenging_ Angel? Or just Angel?"

There was a quiet _thunk_ as Warren's head collided with the kitchen table and he let out a tired, exhausted, exasperated sigh.

"Not this. Not _again,"_ he groaned, slowly pushing himself upright. "We've been over this. We don't _need_ codenames. We're _not_ superheroes."

"Oh? You don't think that psychopath is going to try to destroy all humanity again? Who's gonna stop him? The feds? Because the feds aren't going to be able to do anything and you know it."

Hank coughed a little and looked away. "I was under the impression Mr Lehnsherr simply wants to establish mutant dominance, not actually annihilate humans as a race."

"Because that's the kind of wonderfully merciful attitude he's demonstrated previously, right?" Bobby drawled sarcastically. "And why he's been labelled a terrorist and is what immediately comes to mind for most people when they think of mutants?"

Warren glowered at him. "That doesn't change the fact that we're still _kids,_ Bobby. _You,_ especially."

"Hey! I'm not a kid!"

"You're barely _fourteen."_

"Yes. Four_teen. _Teenager."

"That doesn't mean you're not still a kid!"

"So…what _does_ that mean? Can we be superheroes in a few years?"

"What, you think people are going to be _okay_ with mutants like us running around getting into fights and using our powers openly and in public? They barely tolerate us existing in the first place. Not to mention, we'll have the living daylights sued out of us for property damages."

"We live in a _mansion."_

"The Professor isn't _that_ rich. No one is."

"That's why we'll have masks and codenames."

"Oh, _right._ Of course. How could I have been so blind? Complicated problems always have simple solutions. Masks and codenames. That'll fix it."

While Bobby and Warren continued to bicker over a topic they'd been bickering over since both of them _got_ here, I silently munched on pizza, not bothering to try to add anything to the conversation. There was nothing I could add. This particular argument was more commonplace than one would think.

"Scott isn't joining us, I take it?" Hank asked suddenly, directing this question at me.

I shrugged. "Looks that way."

Bobby visibly shivered. "Probably better if he doesn't. Not sure I'm okay being near that guy after what happened in the Danger Room."

My lip curled slightly. "Are you really in a position to judge, Mr 'I-Freeze-Everything-I-Touch'?"

"My eyes don't blow shit up."

"I've done worse," I pointed out quietly. "And you lived through that."

"Yeah Jean, you're terrifying too. Terrifying, but at least you're mostly _nice."_

_"Mostly?"_

Bobby nodded. "Mostly."

I paused, considering that for a moment. "Okay, I'll take that. But you still know better than to judge someone on their powers."

"But the only thing I really know about the guy _is_ his powers," he pointed out, before shaking his head and looking away. "Forget it. I'll…get over it. Get used to it. Something."

There was a brief silence until Hank asked something to do with sports that I didn't pay attention to because let's face it, I'm not going to particularly care about anything to do with that kind of thing. Soon they were off chatting and engaging in banter just as always and while they did, I quietly excused myself. Mundane helps, sometimes. I'd forgotten that.

I smiled faintly as I made my way upstairs. I needed this. I didn't know it, but I did. I needed this, and it helped me more than I thought it would.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Scott didn't answer when I knocked on his door. Or when I called his name. Or when I cracked open the door and cautiously peeked inside. He wasn't anywhere to be found, which was odd, because there were some vague thoughts that were probably his because they definitely weren't mine floating on the edge of my consciousness. For what seemed like much too long, I stood there, holding the door open, expecting him to jump out at me or something. It never happened. My eyes narrowed.

_I know you're here,_ I called out telepathically. _Scott, I can hear you._

There was a small flicker of something, unease, I think, which would be typical for Scott in a situation where telepathy is involved. Other than that, there was nothing to confirm or deny his presence. I walked into the centre of his apparently deserted room, confused and wary.

_Where are you?_

_Roof._

I blinked in surprise. _What?_

No reply. Slowly, I made my way out onto the balcony, leaning over the railing, not sure what I was looking for. I remained there for what seemed like much too long before turning around and looking up.

Oh.

He's on the roof.

_Duh._

"How did you…how did you get up there?" I called up to him.

"Climbed," he answered shortly. "You know, like you're supposed to."

That's a dig at my telekinesis if I've ever heard one. Funny, not many people have the confidence to take a shot at my powers. Bobby's an icicle and Warren's an angel and Hank's a beast and Scott's an explosion waiting to happen, but Jean? Jean's just _scary. _It's oddly refreshing.

In any case, I took no note of the remark as I lifted myself up to his level, surprisingly comfortable with my control over my telekinesis in that regard, considering how high up I was. The Institute is something like three stories high, and that's _not_ counting the labyrinth of basement levels. Scott immediately moved over to make room for me and I sat myself down next to him.

How long has he been up here?

"They've got pizza downstairs, if you want any," I said almost the exact second I got comfortable.

"You came all the way up here to tell me that?" he asked incredulously.

No.

Really, I just wanted to talk to you.

"Well, no," I admitted. "Because I know you're going to say something about either not being hungry or not liking pizza – which is _not true and you know it_ – or not wanting to be around people right now or some other excuse to get you out of interacting…so I'm here, interacting for you."

He lay back, letting out a long, drawn out sigh and pulled his glasses off. His eyes were closed, I knew they were, he would never be so stupid, but I still flinched away from him. I couldn't help it. It's almost like a conditioned reaction nowadays. Everyone else in the Institute is the same, except perhaps Professor Xavier. Scott knows it, too.

"Sorry," he apologised, keeping his eyes closed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "It's just…glasses…it aches, after a while. I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't scare me."

"You flinched."

How did he know that? He can't have seen me. Maybe he just felt me move a little further away from him. That made sense. Or an amount of sense. I don't know.

"Not on purpose," I insisted.

"No one flinches on purpose, Jean."

I didn't have anything to say to that, and consequently, we fell into silence. Slowly, Scott slid the glasses back on and sat up, rubbing the back of his neck and not bothering to say anything. Either he was just being quiet like normal or he's deep in thought. I used to be able to tell. I used to be able to look at him and see if his eyes had glassed over. I used to be able to be able to maybe hazard a guess at what he was feeling by looking at his facial expression.

But he's right, isn't he? No one flinches on purpose. It's an instinctive reaction to fear or pain. Sometimes both. It's not a conscious decision. Instinct is never conscious.

I used to know you, Scott. I used to think that, even after all that time we didn't talk, I could still come to know you. Now, though? I don't know. I don't think I know who you are anymore. Everything's so closed off, hidden from me, from the world. I wonder if it'll ever change, if it will always be this way. I wonder if it's possible to go back to what we had, to the people we used to be. Even your mind has become a fortress I can't penetrate.

And it's all so melancholic all of a sudden.

"How's learning to control your powers coming?" Scott asked suddenly.

I kept my head down, unwilling to admit that I'd lost it at Professor Xavier, and not even for the first time. I felt bad just thinking about it. Odds are I'll end up apologising for it very soon and he'll do his usual _we all have trying times, everything will be okay if you just keep persisting_ speech and it'll be like the argument never happened. Mostly. Professor Xavier runs a boarding school for mutant teens – each of which is a rampaging mess of hormones and out of control powers – I'm sure he's well equipped for far worse than little spats.

Especially since he's practically destined to accumulate more students as time goes by.

"Not great. You?"

"Same as always," he muttered, the bitterness in his tone evident.

I wish he wouldn't be like that. But then, all things considered, he's gotten a lot better at not moping constantly and I did sort of walk right in on what was possibly him having some kind of existential crisis. I can't really blame him. Or get angry at him. Not like last time.

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like if the plane crash hadn't happened?" I asked vaguely.

"It'd be exactly the same."

"But it might not. Head trauma, brain damage, possibly affected your powers, remember?"

"Oh yes. How could I forget that theory?"

Sarcasm. He doesn't want to talk about this. Too bad. I'm going to make him.

"Do you think, if someone operated-?"

"There's no proof to say that's problem. In any case, it's not reversible."

"But if they really knew what they were doing…"

He sighed heavily. "It's not happening, Jean. It's _not_ the kind of thing that's reversible. They'd sooner come up with a cure."

My eyes narrowed. The taboo subject. The one we all know we shouldn't ever bring up, not while within the grounds of the Institute or earshot of Professor Xavier. I used to think it was such a stupid notion – why, oh _why_ would you _ever_ want to change a part of yourself so drastically just to fit in? It didn't make any sense before. I couldn't think of any other reason why someone would do such a thing, and it seemed so stupid to me. I glanced at Scott briefly and felt a pang of pity – something which he'd probably hate me for if he found out, but I couldn't help it. I couldn't help but feel angry at myself for completely missing the bigger picture earlier.

But it's still…should you really do that to yourself? Is it _okay_ to do that to yourself? I know people change themselves all the time in all kinds of drastic ways but…somehow, it seems inherently _wrong_ to me. Powers are part of you. They evolve with you, help you grow and shape you as a person. They're there to protect you. Is it really worth getting rid of them? For any reason?

"Would you take it?"

"What?"

"If someone developed a cure, or an x-gene suppressant or whatever. Would you take it?"

He paused for a brief moment, considering the idea. "…probably."

I knew what his answer was going to be before he said it, but it still took me by surprise.

I arched an eyebrow. "Honestly?"

"What's my other option? Pass up the chance to be normal again? To _see _again, without putting everyone around me at risk of death? Why wouldn't I?"

Well, when you put it like _that…_

Can I really blame him? Can I honestly say that I never looked into the possibility myself? That I never yearned to be normal, to not have to deal with shattering everything even slightly breakable in my vicinity every time I lose my temper? To be free of those kinds of problems forever? I guess the reason I stopped wondering about it is because the good outweighed the bad for me. I can't say the same for him.

But his powers are a _part_ of him, just like are a part of me. Evolution, constant adaption, to make the monumental effort to survive in the world just a little easier. That's all we are. Human evolution, maybe helped along a bit by the invention of atom bombs, but let's be honest, I'm not a geneticist, I don't fully understand these things and I wouldn't trust my judgement. In the end, I'm the _result;_ a fifteen year old girl who is capable of snapping someone's spine with a casual flex of her mind.

"Powers can be useful," I mumbled in some vague, half-hearted attempt to change his mind.

_"Your_ powers can be useful."

"So could yours. You just haven't found out how yet."

"When and if I ever meet someone who needs to be sent through a wall."

I smiled crookedly. "I could think of a few people. And no one would complain, either."

"Really? Like who?"

Oh, so many people. Bolivar Trask comes to mind. I'm not a great fan of Robert Kelly and his plans to force each and every mutant within continental USA to out themselves to the general public and so open themselves up to the possibility of hate-crime, either. But one name really jumps out.

"Well, I know Erik Lehnsherr isn't a terribly popular man…"

"Who?"

"Oh! I forgot you're not- …he's, well, he's a mutant. An old friend of Professor Xavier's. You'd probably know him better as Magneto."

Recognition flashed across Scott's face ever so briefly. "Oh yeah, that lunatic. Didn't he…?"

"If the rest of that sentence is anything along the lines of 'get a bunch of people killed for mostly shits and giggles', the answer is yes, probably."

"That attack on the White House in the seventies? With the robots? And the stadium?"

I frowned.

Oh yes. That little _gem_ of an instance in modern history. They're still showing the remaining footage now, whenever someone feels they need to ram it home to the general public just how formidable and dangerously unstable those crazy whack-job mutants can be. And it makes its point painfully, _agonisingly_ clear. It's hard to argue with a video that clearly shows an almost presidential assassination at the hands of a mutant terrorist who remains at large today. So maybe it didn't end as badly as it could've and _maybe_ said terrorist was stopped by another mutant who Professor Xavier _still_ refuses to talk about even though I've been asking for details since I met the man, but the fact remains that it has sufficiently terrified everyone ever since.

"That's the one," I admitted slowly.

I don't know why I'm telling him any of this. This is a spectacularly bad idea.

"Okay. The Professor knows him. That's great. That's _wonderful,"_ he muttered under his breath. "Come to the Institute, Scott! Put your trust in a man who can ransack and straight out control your mind! You're powerless to stop him from doing so as well! He's fine though, really. He's good friends with a terrorist."

"They haven't actually spoken in years."

"Sure they haven't."

My eyes widened a little as I recognised the tone of his voice. The distinct edge with which he spoke was almost exactly the same as that of suspicious members of the public, when they're probing you, trying to make you slip up and somehow prove their opinions right.

I hated it. I hated hearing it from anyone. But I _especially_ hated hearing it from _him._

I folded my arms. "How can you still have a distrust of mutants? You _are _a mutant!"

"I don't-"

"Listen to yourself for three seconds and tell me you don't still have a distrust of mutants. It's bad enough society hates us. We shouldn't start hating ourselves."

Bit late for that one, Jean. Still. One can wish for a better world, can't they? Because wishing has changed a whole lot. Because it's a super easy way to radically change how the world works. I wonder if there's a mutant out there whose mutant power is wishing. Like a genie. A real life genie. That would be so cool.

Although, if I really wanted to change people minds, I could. By force.

…again, sounding more malicious than intended. I'm _not_ a budding supervillain. Honestly. I'm not. Destroying the world isn't in my best interest. I live in it. I need it to keep being a thing. I'd like to put my effort into saving it, into making it a better place without stripping people of their free will.

Does God have this problem? Like, you're assholes and I know you are, but if I make the choice for you then you're not really changing, are you? Taking freedom is sort of fundamentally against everything humanity is supposed to be about.

Please don't compare yourself to God, Jean. That comparison is just…_don't._

"Think about everything that's happened since mutants became a thing and tell me people don't have a reason to hate us," Scott shot back at me, his voice low and deathly quiet. "Tell me we didn't do anything to deserve it."

I looked away, out at the lights of the city that sprawled in every direction around us.

"People fear what they don't understand," I told him quietly. It's one of Professor Xavier's better quotes. "If we work together, convince them that we're not all monsters; that mostly we're just normal, everyday human beings with abilities and talents beyond what has been considered normal in the past, then they'll stop."

And everything will get better.

It should.

It _has_ to.

Scott let out a shout of harsh, bitter laughter. "No, Jean. People _fear_ what they know will kill them."

Without another word, he slipped down with surprising speed and grace, like he'd climbed up here a thousand times before, and disappeared inside.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

_"No,"_ Scott's voice thundered – which took me completely by surprise, Scott never _thunders_ – from downstairs. "No, Hank! There's no way in _hell_ that's happening!"

Must be one hell of an argument if _Scott's_ the one who's yelling. And at Hank? Who argues with Hank? No one argues with Hank. He's too placid and likable and everyone likes Hank why on earth would Scott ever get angry at him? I hadn't realised it was even possible to get mad at Hank, ever, for any reason.

My curiosity piqued, I made my way down the hall, coming to a halt at the top of the stairs, not wanting to get any closer. Scott was standing at the foot of the stairs, his right hand tracing the frames of his glasses, as if he was afraid someone might try to snatch them off his head. That, it seemed, had been Hank's very intention, and now they were arguing over it.

No wonder Scott's pissed off. He used to react with fear when things got too close to his glasses. Now he gets aggressive. I'm not sure which one is better. Probably fear. Scott's _terrifying_ when he's angry. He didn't used to be. It might have something to do with the fact that I know he's more than capable of tearing someone apart simply by looking at them. Or bringing the Institute to rubble around us. All he has to do is take off the glasses, and we're all dead.

And doesn't he know it.

I'm sure he gets painfully reminded of that little fact of life every waking second.

"What's going on here?" I demanded, running down the stairs in some attempt to avert the catastrophe waiting to happen.

Hank seemed relieved to see me. "Ah, Jean. Perhaps you can talk some sense into him."

_"I'm_ not the one who needs sense talked into him," Scott snarled dangerously.

This isn't good. This cannot be good. Anything that can send Scott into a screaming rage is something I should stay far, far away from, not become the mediator of. I've never been all that great at mediating. I always end up taking sides. But it's not looking like I have a choice here.

"Okay," I muttered, still trying to make sense of everything. "What are you actually arguing about?"

Scott's lip curled. "Apparently, Hank has a death wish."

There was a huge, exasperated sigh on Hank's behalf before he turned to me. "I'm trying to design some eyewear for our friend here that will allow him some control over his blasts. However, to _do_ that, I need an idea of the kind of force they put out. Which would mean measuring them."

"Which would mean killing us _both,"_ Scott spat.

"Not at all. As your eyelids haven't been blasted off, it would be safe to assume that you are in fact immune to your own power," Hank said tiredly, talking to Scott now. "I might die, but _you _would be completely safe."

I blinked several times and glanced from Scott to Hank and back again. I don't know why I was surprised by this observation. It made sense. More sense than I felt it should.

"That's really reassuring Hank, thanks."

"It may also explain why Newton's Third Law doesn't seem to apply you," Hank ploughed on, completely ignoring Scott's sarcastic quip like a professional.

He waited for the inevitable look of _I don't know what the hell you're talking about,_ but Scott's expression did not change. As it came apparent that no explanation was being demanded, Hank's eyebrows rose a little, pleasantly surprised. I suppose you would be, after being a genius in the house full of idiot teenagers for so long. Scott, upon taking note of this, was less positive.

And who here is surprised? Anyone?

"I do actually study physics."

My eyes narrowed. I didn't get any of that. Unlike both of them, I'm not into physics. "Can I just point out that I _don't?"_

"For every action, there is an equal and opposite _re_action," Hank explained dryly. "By that thinking, every time he let off a blast, he'd be thrown off his feet. Taking into account that the blasts never _stop,_ well, you can see the problem."

I smiled just a little at that mental image. "That _would_ be problematic."

"Glad to see you're having fun with this," Scott snapped, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Man is he in a bad mood today.

"Oh lighten up," I told him cheerfully, while also playfully punching his arm. "Why aren't you excited by this? It'll give you control, you'll be able to regulate how strong you want your blasts to be. You'll have levels between everything and nothing. You'll be able to use them for all kinds of things!"

"I don't want to use them for _anything,"_ he argued. "I don't _want_ them, full stop."

There it is. I knew it was coming. I'm glad to see I wasn't left waiting.

I folded my arms. "Well right now, you don't have a lot of choice."

Scott's expression remained impassive, giving nothing away. Almost on reflex, I did what I always do when I can't read someone's face, and I read his mind instead.

_She's taking his side, why is she taking his side? She knows, she's _seen_ what happens._

_I'm not trying to take sides, Scott,_ I thought in his direction before I could stop myself. _I genuinely believe this could be good for you._

Scott immediately flinched away from me, bristling. _Get _out_ of my head, Jean!_

_Maybe I wouldn't have to if you bothered to talk to me,_ I snapped back.

His lip curled and he stared obstinately at the floor, his thoughts condensing into an incoherent mess.

_Scott. Out loud. With words,_ I chastised him, sounding a little too much like my own mother for comfort. Is this it? Have I turned into Scott's surrogate parent here at the Institute? Sometimes that's what it feels like. It's not fair. That's supposed to Professor Xavier's job. Since when did it suddenly fall to me?

I sighed heavily and glanced at Hank. _He's not going to come round, not today. I'll talk to him – but I wouldn't get my hopes up._

He nodded curtly at me, made some vague excuse to Scott and promptly left, disappearing to do who knows what, probably. I'm not sure Scott cared. Or even noticed the departure at all.

Why, Scott? Why do you _always_ do this?

Why did I think he was getting better? How did I manage to honestly convince myself that he was getting at all better? Maybe he's a little more sociable, maybe he's been leaving his room and talking and engaging with life a little more, but he's always angry and he's always depressed or anxious and he's never in a good mood and there have been too many times where I've tried to have a perfectly innocent conversation with him and he'll suddenly go cold, just completely shut himself off from the world. He's jumpy and he's easily startled and he doesn't sleep and he barely eats anything and I'm pretty sure he's lost weight – he's trying to hide it, but he _has,_ I know he has. The only reason he's been engaging at all is to get people, people like me, like Professor Xavier, like his parents, to stop worrying about him.

And I _fell_ for it.

I know he does this. I've seen him do it. He grits his teeth and he lies and he tries to act like he's fine. I always wondered how people fell for it, when I could see it so clearly. I thought I could see through it because I know him. Turns out I was just the only person he didn't bother to hide from. Turns out, I'm not even that anymore. This can't just be because of his powers. It can't be. They might be most of the reason why, but they can't be all of it. Because he had these problems long before _mutant_ came into the picture. He's been like this for as long as I've known him. His powers just made it worse.

_People fear what they know will kill them._

He's not wrong.

I don't want to say he's _right,_ but he's certainly not _wrong._ Anything that has shown an ability to kill people has been closely monitored, and in some cases – more than I'd like to admit – they've been relentlessly culled, some of them hunted to extinction, or close. What's there to say the same thing won't happen to mutants? They don't see us as normal. They don't even see us as human. The only way to peacefully coexist is to make people see us as their own. We have to become human to them. We have to be _human,_ not mutants. We can't give them any other names to call us by.

Being human is harder than you'd think.

"Why the hell are you taking his side?" Scott demanded after a painfully long silence.

I beamed, unable to hide my relief that he still knew how to speak properly.

Ah, finally.

Words.

Conversation.

"Because I know control is something you want. And I know you're never going to get it if you're too afraid to take risks."

His lip curled. "Being too afraid to take risks would be something like never getting in a car on the off chance it might crash. _This_ is _guaranteed_ to end badly."

I sighed and looked away. "Okay. I get it. You've had some bad experiences, and you don't want to repeat them. That's normal. But just because it went badly once doesn't mean it'll end that way every time."

"What do you know about it?" he snarled.

"More than you'd like to think," I told him flatly. "This is just like the plane crash, you know?"

Almost immediately, a Scott visibly shivered and went quiet. I automatically steeled myself against any projections from his mind – something I'd fully come to expect from him. He's gotten better about it. Or maybe I've gotten better at preparing myself. Or maybe we both have. Who knows?

"Statistically, flying is the safest way to travel," I told him. "You _do_ know that, don't you?"

He nodded mutely.

"But despite knowing that, despite it being seven years later, you're still afraid of flying."

"I'm not afraid of flying."

Sure you aren't.

"Scott. Be honest with me. Have you actually managed to even _look_ at an _airport_ without having an anxiety attack since the crash?"

He didn't answer.

"Not to mention, you're afraid of hospitals as well," I ploughed on. "Why would that be? Maybe because the main time you were in one you nearly died?"

"That's not…"

"Not what?"

He groaned loudly and pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling with something. "I don't…remember. I don't remember what I was going to say."

I folded my arms and watched him, eyebrows raised. "The point is, you're letting your anxiety get in the way of things that could help you. Instead of controlling your powers, you're letting your fear of them overwhelm you. You're not giving yourself a chance."

"Jean, you sound like the Professor."

"Not surprising. He's given me the fear lecture about twenty seven hundred times," I pointed out dryly. "In any case, Hank knows what he's doing. He understands the consequences. He just wants to help make life a little easier for you. And I think you should let him."

He was silent for a moment.

It was one of the longest moments of my life.

And for that one moment, one of the longest moments of my life, I thought I'd convinced him. I thought I'd succeeded in doing the impossible. I'd gotten Scott to change his mind. Made him see himself as something more than a walking weapon of mass destruction. I honestly, genuinely believed that I'd won.

"I can't do this, Jean," he mumbled finally. "Not after…I just- I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I took out a _crane!"_ he had to stop himself from screaming. "I nearly killed an entire crowd of people without even realising! I destroyed my own house and I blew up the Danger Room and I could've killed the Professor and I _can't_ stop it from _happening! _I can't do _anything _about it. People aren't going to keep getting away clean forever. One day someone's going to die because of me and I won't be able to stop it."

He was gripping the banister for support now.

"I just…it's just…it's not worth the risk. It's _not."_

Gingerly, I placed my hand on his shoulder. I didn't know what else to do. There was nothing I could do that would comfort him, and I knew it. He shivered at my touch, but otherwise didn't react. Slowly, I leaned forwards until my head was resting on his shoulder, and I despaired.

This isn't fair.

It shouldn't have to be like this.

He's fifteen years old. He shouldn't have to go through this. He shouldn't have to be afraid. He shouldn't have to feel like he needs to cut himself off from everyone else in the entire world because he's so terrified of losing what precious little control over his life he has.

It's _not_ fair.

Life isn't fair. Maybe that's true and maybe we're all nothing more than whiny teenagers who have it so much better than anyone else and we have no right to complain but…this can't be it. This can't be the peak of humanity. This is horrible and it's depressing and it's fraught with problems and fears and anxieties. We're all scared. We're all alone. We're all striving for something better, something we all desperately hope exists, can exist.

"It's okay."

It's not.

"It's going to be okay."

It's really, really not.

"You're going to be okay."

He didn't reply.

He knows I'm lying.

It's all too easy to make someone believe they're a monster, people will do that to themselves.

But how do you make a monster see themselves as human again?


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Fire. Pain. Someone screaming, crying. There's a woman, she's watching me with utter fear and terror in her eyes. She's crying and she's telling me that she loves me, over and over again as she pulls at straps and buckles. She says I need to be brave. That I need to look after my brother. That she loves me. That she'll be okay, that everything will be okay, and she loves me.

She's going to die.

We're all going to die.

I know it.

_She_ knows it.

The next thing I know, I'm falling, the ground is rushing up towards me at a terrifying speed and-

Blackness.

Pain.

Fear.

I don't know where I am.

Where am I?

Someone is laughing, cackling evilly, it's sickening to hear. I thrash and I scream and I'm in so much pain and I can't do anything about it. Someone leans over me, I can feel hot breath on my neck. A shiver runs up my spine and I try to shy away but I can't move. I'm trapped. Someone's hand caresses my face and tells me that I'm beautiful and unique and perfect and I feel like I'm going to throw up.

What is this? What's going on?

I'm so confused, I can barely bring myself to think straight…

My…my head…

It hurts.

It hurts so much and I can't escape it, can't ignore it.

And all the while, someone is laughing.

N-no, don't…_please…_

Where am I?

_Where am I?_

Pain erupts from what feels like everywhere and I scream and writhe pointlessly in agony while someone laughs, just _laughs-_

It's red.

It's all red.

The world around me has been dyed a bright, bloody crimson. It's so bright and it's so intense I can't see anything else. There's so much pressure in my head and I can't focus and everything around me is being destroyed and someone is screaming – who? Who's screaming? Why does it seem like there is _always_ someone screaming?

…no.

No, that's me.

It's _me._

I'm the one who's screaming.

I don't know what's happening and all its all _red._ Why is it red? What's wrong with me? Everything around me is being blown apart, everywhere I look things are getting pulverised, blown apart by sheer force and my head…my _head…_

Close your eyes.

What's going on? What's happening?

Close your eyes.

Is it me?

Close your eyes!

It's me.

_Close_ your _eyes!_

How can it be _me?_

For the love of god and all that's holy, _close_ your godforsaken _eyes!_

In no time at all the red is gone, the world is gone, everything is gone and I'm greeted with nothing but darkness but I haven't moved. Nothing has changed, I've just closed my eyes. Everything is exactly as it was, only now I can't see. The pressure behind my eyes immediately starts building again and my head feels like it's about to split open and I can't stand it, I can't take it. There's so much heat and there's so much pressure and I can't, I _can't-_

I need to open my eyes.

I can't open my eyes.

Don't make me open my eyes.

W-what's happening to me?

The pain…it's so much…it's excruciating, it's impossible to even hear myself _think…_

There's a crane, it's being ripped apart; it's falling hopelessly towards a crowd of people but somehow manages to miss. Something pushed it out, away from the people. Darkness greets me again and I fall to my knees, shaking and struggling to understand what's happening to me.

I run.

I don't have any other choice. I have to get away.

God.

Please, God.

Make it stop.

Help me.

My eyes flew open and I had to bite back a scream. I immediately slammed my eyes shut and clamped my hand over them, terrified that I'll blast a hole in the ceiling. Again. I grasped blindly at my bedside table with my spare hand for my glasses, growing increasingly anxious when I didn't find anything.

No. _No._ No, no, no.

This isn't happening.

This _can't_ be happening.

They have to be there. They _have_ to be. I can't be blind again. I can't go through that again. I need to find them, they have to be somewhere…maybe they just fell onto the floor? Maybe they-

Oh wait.

They're not here.

Of course they're not here.

I stopped. I removed my hand from my face and opened my eyes, looking up and staring aimlessly at the ceiling, my mind still reeling from the nightmare. The glasses will be where they always are – across the hall, in Scott's room, on Scott's beside table. Just like how Scott himself is across the hall, in bed, still in the grips of the nightmare I'd just been having.

Who am I?

I'm Jean.

I'm _Jean,_ not Scott.

Where did Scott even come from?

Slowly, I sat up, massaging my forehead furiously and trying to work out what just happened.

I must've been reaching out with my mind in my sleep. Scott's the closest to me, so I guess I got sucked into his head, and ended up having his nightmare. I've never done that before. I've never messed up this badly with telepathy before. Not since Professor Xavier sealed most of it away. The last time something like this happened it was with Annie and I died.

I winced a little at the memory. Everyone keeps telling me that's not what happened. I didn't really die. I can't have. But I was with Annie and I got inside her head and I _was_ her. I felt her pain and when she slipped away, I did too. That was the one time I had everything. All of my power as telepath, just as it was manifesting. The fact that I've done this again, done it _now…_

Must be another power fluctuation.

Professor Xavier isn't going to let this slide. Not like he has with the telekinesis. No. This is too dangerous. This needs to be regulated, controlled, supressed. If I'm once again at a point where I can become so involved with someone's mind that I basically _become_ them, then I'm at risk of going completely catatonic again. Of losing myself absolutely. I'm at risk of Jean Grey fading away into nothing, replaced with a myriad of other people. I'll be replaced with _everyone._

And then? I'll be nothing. I'll be no one.

I have to control it.

I have to focus it.

I have to, before it starts growing wildly out of control. Before I reach the point from which there is no return. But where is that point? Have I already passed it, without even knowing? Maybe I started beyond help. Maybe I'm doomed to this. Maybe I always was. Maybe everyone already knows that, they just don't want to admit it. I'm trapped in the eye of the storm of my own powers.

I _am_ the storm.

I am power.

I am limitless.

I am everything.

I sat up and crept out of bed, cracking the door open and peeking out into the gloomy, dark hall. I don't know how late it was, and generally you'd think it'd be safe to assume that no one would be up in the middle of the night. Not so here at Mutant High. Bobby can rarely sleep properly when it isn't snowing outside as he complains about it being too hot for him, Hank tends to find inspiration at night and becomes so entrenched in his current project that he pulls all-nighters because he simply forgot to sleep. Warren often finds it difficult to get comfortable with his wings, Scott's been suffering from on and off bouts of insomnia ever since he got here and I'm a light sleeper. There have been many times Professor Xavier has woken up at four in the morning to find all five of us sitting in the parlour, unable to sleep, talking or playing or Warren and Scott teaming up in an attempt to murder Bobby, who usually in those situations took refuge somewhere no one would find him.

I paused at Scott's door, my hand hovering over the doorknob. What am I doing? Scott might not even be having that nightmare. Am I even within my rights to go creeping into a boy's room in the dead of night? It's not like we ever had rules about this. I dated Warren, sure, but it was brief and we were never actually _intimate._ I've never actually crept into a boy's bedroom in the dead of night before.

I'm just making sure he's okay. That's allowed, right?

Sure.

Just making sure he's okay.

Let's keep calling it that.

Collecting myself, I cracked the door open and slipped inside.

Scott was tossing and turning in bed, drenched in sweat, his jaw clenched, moaning incoherently. I approached him, growing increasingly worried. I've never seen him this distressed in his sleep.

Are all his nightmares this bad?

"Scott," I whispered his name, placing my hand on his bicep and shaking him slightly. "Wake up. _Scott."_

He didn't respond to me. I shook him again, a little harder this time.

_"Scott!"_

All of a sudden, his eyes flew open, a raging torrent of bright crimson energy pouring from them. I screamed and ducked before I could be caught up by the blast, which hit the window and completely shattered it the moment it impacted the glass. Scott almost immediately slammed his eyes shut and covered them with his arm, rolling onto his back and groaning loudly.

There were gouges the ceiling, the carpet had been ripped up; a wooden dresser had been completely obliterated, the window and the doors leading out onto the balcony had been blown out completely, as well as a good chunk of the balcony itself. I sat crouched in a ball beside his bed, my heart thumping in my chest, suddenly reminded why Scott was so damn paranoid all the time.

It's not like he doesn't have a _very_ good reason to be.

He was sitting up now, feeling blindly for his glasses. I picked them up telekinetically and made them float into his hand. He jumped violently in surprise, obviously not expecting that. I honestly don't know why I thought he would. Quickly, he shoved the glasses on and began looking around wildly. I stood up. He pulled back, surprised by my sudden appearance even though he must've known I was there from the earlier show of telekinesis.

"J-Jean?" he stammered.

"You were having a nightmare," I murmured, shifting from side to side a little sheepishly.

He stared at me, completely at a loss for a moment before seeing the destruction his beam had left. Immediately, he started to panic.

"Oh god, I didn't hurt you, did I? Jean? Tell me I didn't hurt you. _Please _tell me I didn't hurt you."

"I'm fine," I assured him. "I shouldn't have woken you up. I'm sorry."

He gaped wordlessly at me, completely at a loss. _"You're _sorry? I'm the one who should be sorry! I could've killed you! I could've-"

"Scott," I called his name sharply, interrupting him. "Stop it. No one's hurt, so just leave it alone."

He glanced at the distinct lack of a window and back at me, eyebrows raised incredulously, saying nothing.

Of course he'd do that.

"I'm _okay,"_ I insisted.

He looked down, massaging his temples and letting out a loud, frustrated groan before changing the subject completely. "Why are you here?"

"You were having a nightmare."

"And what, I projected it? Can people project dreams? Does that happen?"

I really, _really_ don't want to admit that my powers might be growing. Not here. Not now. Not to him. I'm already scared, I don't need to scare other people as well. I don't want to. I don't want to delve into what might end up happening to me.

"Uh, well, I- I guess so?"

He said nothing for a while. And then, finally;

"…sorry."

I pulled back, utterly confused. "Why are _you_ sorry?"

"You had my nightmare, didn't you?"

"Well yeah, but _I'm_ the one who got inside _your_ head," I reasoned, before pausing. "Do you…want to talk about it?"

"What's to talk about?" he asked flatly. "It's just a dream."

"Well…that middle part was new," I said.

His eyes narrowed, and he looked confused. "What?"

"You know, that especially creepy bit with the laughing."

"…no?"

I shrugged and looked away. "Oh. It must've been one of those dreams you forget when you wake up for you. I woke up on my own, but you didn't. So…"

Scott seemed to go still and silent.

"Y-yeah," he stammered after a while. "You're…probably right."

There was a pause as an icy wind blew in from the gaping hole that opened Scott's bedroom up to the elements, and we both shivered simultaneously.

"Maybe I should start wearing the glasses to bed," he mused quietly, taking in the damage he'd done to his room. "Or a blindfold. Or something to keep my eyes closed."

"Is that really necessary?"

"It might be, if I don't want to have to move bedrooms every few days."

I glanced briefly at the destroyed balcony doors and the shattered windows that had previously surrounded them. It wasn't that bad, compared to his previous mishaps. He may berate himself, but he _is_ getting better, just like everyone else. I just wish he could see that.

"Talk to Hank," I said suddenly, before I could stop myself.

Scott stared at me like I was completely insane. _"What?"_

"Look, I know you're frightened. I know you don't want to hurt anyone. I know you can't control it. But that's exactly what he's trying to give you. I'm not sure you've noticed, but Hank is a certified genius. He knows what he's doing. He understands the risks your powers pose. That's why he wants to help. All I'm asking is that you let him."

He kept his head down. "I can't."

"You can," I insisted. "All you have to do is try. Do it for _me,_ if not for yourself."

He didn't reply.

_"Please,_ Scott?"

Then, slowly, uncertainly, he did something I never thought he'd do.

He nodded.

_For you,_ he thought.

"Okay," he said.

I grinned. "Okay."

_For you._

I hadn't meant to pick up any of his thoughts. That one just stood out. And I knew he wasn't projecting. The only one here who was projecting anything was _me._ I tried not to wince at the thought of my powers fluctuating. At the thought of going through what happened with Annie again.

Maybe I'm already beyond the point of no return. Maybe we all are. It's so hard to tell anymore.

I am power.

I am limitless.

I am the event horizon.

I am fire. And life incarnate.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

"Marvel Girl!" Bobby just about screamed suddenly. "That works, right? You're a girl, and you work _marvels._ Right? _Marvel_ Girl? Huh? Anybody?"

There may as well have been nothing but the echoing sound of crickets chirping throughout the Danger Room for all the reaction this managed to garner. He's been at this all day. It was a surprising amount of dedication for a fourteen year old boy with the attention span of a goldfish.

"Bobby-" Warren began tiredly.

"Iceman."

"Don't get overexcited, _Iceman,"_ he continued in scathing tone, lightly smacking him upside the head. "We're still not superheroes."

I smiled. "I like Marvel Girl."

It's not the worst thing he's suggested. I highly doubt I would've been able to come up with anything better. I mean, it was dull pretty dull and unimaginative, but his other main suggestion of _the Telekinetic Wonder_ was both garish and a mouthful. He's been thinking about this for long time, you can tell. He always does this when Professor Xavier isn't around to chastise him for not focusing on the task at hand.

Not that there was much of a task at hand at present.

The first time Professor Xavier leaves and we have the Institute for ourselves since Scott got here well over five months ago and what does Hank rope us into doing? A Danger Room session. Because it's just gotten back to functional and we should use it while we have it or some other such nonsense.

I'd been hoping to take a vacation. Go back home for a while. Drag Scott with me, since he's barely had contact with his own family since he left. Catch up with friends. Do some shopping. Rigorously practise reining in my powers before I inevitably have another power fluctuation and it takes me completely off-guard. Before going catatonic again becomes a real, dangerous risk. Maybe even try to be normal, for a while. Go back to that. Normal life, normal school, normal friends, normal abilities. I was hoping to get away from all the mutant stuff. Try to be a person. Try to get Scott to be a person. Just get Scott out of the Institute, full stop. Get him out. Get around other people. Get him back into the real world. Spend some actual time with him, just hanging out, not talking about mutants or powers or people being jerks or anything like that. Actually try to be _friends_ with him.

But no. It was not to be.

I don't know why I'm surprised this happened.

What I _am_ surprised at is how upset I am that I was robbed of this opportunity. It's not the first time I've missed out on vacation time I thought I had. It's not even out of the ordinary for this to happen. Why have fun when we can run around in our expensive, high-tech gym that could very well kill us if we didn't have the powers and experience to navigate it.

In spandex uniforms, no less.

Really, the only thing keeping us from being outright superheroes is the current lack of supervillains. And I'm sure more than few of those will pop up sooner or later. Erik Lehnsherr is still out there, after all. And really, he's just the first in an increasingly long line of people who probably need to be beaten into submission by five mutant teenagers. Because why just physically wound someone when you can wound their pride as well?

_Now_ you're talking, Jean.

Yeah. _No._ Not a viable career option. I'd have better luck being a teacher. Or a doctor. Or something similarly mundane. Maybe with a tiny bit of superhero-ing on the side.

Who knows?

Warren flexed his wings, shaking a couple of feathers loose. I smiled just a little as he did; he'd been so paranoid about losing feathers way back when. After a bit of ornithological research, it'd been determined that it wasn't nearly as much of a problem as he thought.

It's funny how if he ever injures his wings, he'd have better luck at a vet's.

Well, it's not that amusing, but it's fun to entertain the idea of Warren sitting at a vet.

We…probably need to get some kind of doctor here at the Institute before one of us gets seriously injured. Hospitals are obligated to treat mutants like anyone else, and some people honestly only care about getting people better whether they're mutants or not, but the majority would rather us be banned from public places completely. It might be better to stay out of everyone hair until they're ready to accept that we exist.

Which means we'll be waiting for a very, _very_ long time.

I've been waiting for Hank and Scott for fifteen minutes now.

I'm not good at waiting.

I'm not a particularly patient person.

I haven't seen Scott all day. I haven't seen Scott much at all since that whole mess with his nightmare. I don't know if he's avoiding me or if Hank's just being really thorough in his tests and everything else. Maybe it's a mix of both. That night was a bit of a disaster. I'd probably avoid me too, if I were in his place.

That wasn't the first time he's had that nightmare.

I _know_ it's not.

And I know that he remembers it.

The fact that he refused to talk about it and still does only supports that theory.

"Hank sure is taking his sweet time." Warren grumbled. "I could be halfway home by now."

"Nothing's stopping you from taking off right now, Warren," I pointed out quietly.

"He's not _Warren,_ he's _Angel."_

"Bobby," Warren called his name, in no mood to be tolerable.

"It's _Iceman."_

"Shut up."

Bobby opened his mouth to argue, but was cut off when the door was thrown open and Hank walked in, looking beside himself with positive _glee._ A few paces behind him, Scott skulked in the shadows.

"Took you long enough!" Warren had to stop himself from yelling.

Hank did not seem to care about the glares he was getting for being so late. "Apologies for the delay. There were a couple of kinks that needed to be worked out."

My eyes narrowed. _"Kinks?_ Hank, you know we can't afford kinks. Not with Scott."

"I'm standing _right here."_

It was the first time I'd heard Scott say anything in days.

"Not those kinds of kinks, Jean," Hank assured me.

"She's Marvel Girl now," Bobby interrupted. "Honestly, you guys need to pay more attention."

Hank paused for a brief moment, before nodding a little. "A little bland, but better than your other suggestions."

Warren groaned loudly and pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly exasperated. "Don't encourage him, Hank."

It was too late for that, and we all knew it.

Thankfully, before anything more could be said, Scott was dragged forward from the shadows so we could all see what Hank had spent the past who knows how long working on. As it turned out, what he had ultimately come up with was a visor that wrapped around Scott's head, a thin line of red – presumably some kind of ruby quartz lens – set into the metal frame, allowing him to see. It was considerably gaudier than a simple pair of red sunglasses, and evidently Scott knew it. He shifted awkwardly, extremely uncomfortable and self-conscious about almost every aspect of the situation. I don't know why. It seemed to hold up well enough. Unless he's not afraid of it breaking at all, rather something a little different.

"I feel like an idiot in this," he complained, his voice barely audible.

Just self-conscious, then. That's a change from tradition. That's a pretty normal reaction. I'd be self-conscious if I had to wear that in front of other people, too. He looks like a cyborg.

A really awkward, tall, kind of skinny, still somehow manages to be mouth wateringly attractive cyborg.

Oh, god, Jean.

Stop.

Just _stop._

You can't be doing this. Not now.

I beamed at him, in some attempt to lighten his mood. He either didn't see me, or ignored me altogether. I wasn't sure which one. It was embarrassing how much I hoped he'd just not seen me.

I know where this is going.

I really don't like where this is going.

I can't afford to do this right now.

Please don't be going where I think you're going, feelings.

Warren's eyes narrowed. "You can actually fire your beams through that?"

Scott nodded mutely.

Hank's smile widened. He seemed especially proud of himself. I suppose he has every right to be. I would be proud of myself too if I was him. Instead I'm entirely distracted by the sixteen year old awkwardly shifting from side to side, looking like he was desperately wishing that he didn't exist.

It's hard to believe that Scott is, in actuality, the second youngest out of the five of us.

"It's been tested rigorously. He can fire through it, as well as control the force and width of the beam. It's astounding, actually, the crystals appear to resonate-"

"Because, _science!"_ Bobby yelled, cutting sharply across Hank. "All anyone needs to know is that we have a living bazooka on our side."

"You're not helping Bobby," Scott muttered.

_"Iceman,"_ he corrected like he had been doing insistently all day. "Codenames only in the Danger Room. We're not Bobby, Hank, Warren, Jean and Scott anymore. We're Iceman, Beast, Angel, Marvel Girl – you're okay with Marvel Girl, right Jean – and…uh, I don't know. Laser-Face?"

His small rant was met with nothing but groans of exasperation from the rest of us.

"You're kidding. Please, for the _love_ of god and all that's holy, tell me you're kidding."

"This is idiotic."

"We're not even superheroes."

"Just kill me now. Please."

"Bazooka Eyes? The Walking Explosion? Optic Beams of Death Man? Come on guys, work with me here."

It took all of Scott's discipline and self-control to not hit his head against the wall and risk damaging the visor. Instead he stood rooted to the spot, a small frown the only thing giving away the fact that he's just a bit annoyed at the situation he's found himself in.

He's so cute when he gets irritated like that.

Jean, you're doing it again.

I wonder if he ever thinks I'm cute.

No.

Oh, _no._

I can't believe this is happening to me.

I'm the most powerful mutant here. I shouldn't care what a boy thinks of me. And in any case, I'm a reasonably powerful, in unrefined, telepath. If I wanted to know, I could. The only thing that's stopping me is the fact that he's my friend and he doesn't like telepathy in combination with the part of my brain that likes to quote Professor Xavier every time I think of something even slightly morally ambiguous.

But I'm at a loss of why I care.

I never cared before.

Why now?

_Why_ is this happening to me _now?_

"…Cyclops?" Bobby piped up suddenly.

Scott whirled around. "What?"

"Because you kind of look like you've got one long, thin red eye?"

"That's great Bobby, thanks," he snarled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "That's got nothing to do with-"

"Oh, just indulge him, Scott," I called, trying desperately to hide the fact that I've been ogling him since he got here. "It's not like we'll ever actually be running around in skin-tight costumes on the street, calling each other by codenames."

Yeah, you say that _now,_ Jean.

"Sounds pretty badass, I think."

"I'm going to send you through a wall if you don't shut it, Bobby."

_"Iceman."_

"I'm going to send you through a wall in thirty seconds if you don't shut it, _Iceman."_

Bobby ignored the threat completely and opted instead to start antagonising Warren – who was probably a much safer target. Scott stood motionless, running a hand through his hair and looking kind of agitated and generally stressed out. Slowly, awkwardly, I made my way over to him.

"Are you okay?" I murmured.

Scott turned away slightly. "Yeah. Fine."

My eyes narrowed. I know that behaviour. "Headache?"

He whirled back around to face me, surprised. "I- how did you-?"

"I'm not sure you've noticed, but I'm a _telepath,_ Scott. Also, you always have a headache."

Much to my surprise, instead of making some sarcastic quip, he smiled weakly at me. He has such a nice smile. I forgot how much I like it when he smiles. He should try doing it more often. It makes him look a lot more approachable than the grim stoic thing he has going on the rest of the time.

"Thanks."

I arched an eyebrow at him. "What for?"

"Dealing with my crap," he muttered. "I was angry and frustrated and scared and I said a lot of stupid things and…I'm just…I'm…I'm better now."

I beamed at him. "I'm glad."

"Yo! Cyclops and Marvel Girl! Are you two done making goo-goo eyes at each other? Because we're ready to go whenever," Bobby yelled. "You know if we're ever in an actual fight we're going to die because you two weren't paying attention."

Immediately, I pulled away from Scott, only now realising just how close I'd been to him and turned away, blushing furiously.

Oh my god.

I'm going to kill him.

And maybe myself, and so spare myself the embarrassment.

A brief flash of red light lit up the Danger Room and I whirled around just in time to see Bobby get slammed onto the floor – totally unharmed, just a little stunned from the suddenness of the blow. Scott's hand remained still, hovering less than inch from a small dial on the side of his visor. I stared aimlessly for a moment, taken aback by how little destruction had been caused by the beam. Hank really is a miracle worker.

"I'm sorry, who's not paying attention?" Scott asked casually.

"Ha, very funny. Surprise attack. Sucks to be you, I'm not even hurt," Bobby replied, immediately taking on his full ice form. "Good luck getting me again, Cyclops. Like you could even get a shot in."

Scott seemed unperturbed.

"Say that again, _Iceman,"_ he threatened quietly. "I _dare_ you."


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Scott's back was covered in a multitude of scars that I had never seen before, I noticed. There were matching scars on both his wrists, which wound their way around like he'd worn a pair of bracelets that had cut viciously into his skin and long since healed over.

How did he _get _those?

Why hadn't I noticed them before?

I racked my brain for the answers, only to realise that the main reason for this oversight was purely the simple fact that Scott always, _always,_ now and forever, _constantly_ wears long sleeves.

Doesn't explain how or why he got them.

Do you really want to know, Jean?

Like, yeah, knowing things about him is important, but are you _sure_ you want to delve _that_ deeply into the dark, murky abyss of the strange quirks of Scott's childhood? Particularly that part when you weren't there and he was depressed and fourteen?

Now that I think about it, I'm not sure I want to know how he got those. I'm not sure I want to know how he got any of them. The longer I stared, the more I realised just how messed up he truly was. And the more I wondered just how much I didn't know about him. And the longer I stared aimlessly at him, taking in every single aspect of his appearance, the more uncomfortable Scott became.

"Jean."

He didn't used to have those scars.

He didn't used to be a towering six foot three, either. He also didn't used to wear glasses constantly, didn't used to be a mutant able to kill with a glance, didn't used to be better than me and quite frankly everyone else at martial arts and he _certainly _didn't used to be quite so…athletic. Well-built. Well-muscled. Something.

There is just _no_ way of putting it that doesn't make me sound like some sort of pervert, is there?

It seems not.

"Jean."

He takes this so seriously. I thought I took this seriously. I don't. I'm still a shitty teenager who jokes. Scott's focus on this is unparalleled. I thought he was obsessive before – it's _nothing_ compared to this. I've even caught him trying to learn how to fight without his visor, completely blind. Just in case. Just in case, if by chance, he gets caught in a situation where he can't see, can't open his eyes, he's not completely defenceless.

Maybe I should be worried that Professor Xavier is encouraging him in this, but I know the reasons behind it. Scott needs to focus on something. Needs a goal to work towards. It's how he brings himself to function.

Still.

Just in case seems a little extreme.

_"Jean."_

My head snapped up at the call of my name, only to find Scott standing there, on the other side of the changing room, still shirtless, arching an eyebrow at me.

Scott should not be shirtless.

If I want to be able to concentrate on anything else again, Scott should not _ever_ be shirtless.

"You mind telling me what's on my back that you're so fascinated with?"

I blinked several times and felt the heat rise to my cheeks.

This is ridiculous. I've been annoyed at the fact that we only have one, unisex change room ever since I got here because of the obvious – I'm a girl, a young, teenage girl, living in a mansion with four boys, four young, teenage boys – but it just so happens that they're all gentlemen and the one sneaking peeks is actually me.

Maybe because they all know that if I catch them – and I _will_ catch them, I'm a telepath you know – I will obliterate them, mind and body.

"I- …uh, w-well…um, yeah. A-about…about that. Right. Hm. Yes. You see, uh, Scott, I, um-"

Scott stood there in silence, waiting patiently for me to find my words. It threw me off. See, if it was Warren, I would've gotten some snarky comment about he's too beautiful for existence because Warren, despite his money and apparent class, is a shit. Bobby would've hurled ice at me, because he's a more blatant, obvious shit. I've no idea about Hank, but I'm sure he'd be a shit too. Scott's polite silence caught me completely off-guard.

Damn him being shirtless and attractive and shirtless and _nice_ and shirtless…

Stop.

Stop it.

Right now, Jean.

Stop.

Cease and desist.

Thank God he's not the one who's a telepath here.

"Scars," I murmured finally.

His eyebrows rose a little. "Scars?"

"On your back."

He twisted around, trying to see what I was talking about and evidently failing. I sighed.

"On your wrists too."

Oh, god.

The words were out before I could stop them. Before I could even think. I immediately bit my lip, regretting everything and hating myself and fully expecting Scott to immediately tense and give me nothing whatsoever.

Much to my surprise, he didn't. His eyebrows rose a little and he held his hands up in front of his face and stared at his wrists for a painfully long time, trying to see what I was talking about and very quickly getting absolutely nowhere. For the longest time, I simply watched, wondering why it was taking him an entire age to see what I was talking about. He doesn't make any sense to me. He doesn't make any sense to anyone. Scott Summers just doesn't make sense as a person.

And then, finally;

"Alright…I'm going to assume you're not making this up because colour disfigurations are not my strong suit."

What-?

Oh.

_Oh._

Colour-blind, Jean. God, you're an idiot. How did it take you this long to realise that? It took all of my self-control to not slam my head against the lockers, berating myself. How did I miss that? How did that escape my attention? I guess I just forgot. He's very good at never talking about it, ever.

Ugh. Jean Grey, worst person in the history of ever.

How and why am I permitted to exist again?

"Monochromic vision will do that," I said quietly, before pausing to think about it. "What _do_ you see, though?"

He cocked his head at me. "Uh, the same thing you see?"

"No, I mean, well, what do you see when you're not wearing the glasses?"

"Nothing, usually," he answered with a very slight smile on his face.

"Oh haha. Very funny. You're a shit."

I'm glad to see you're still capable of that.

"I'm curious, though. Is it the glasses that make everything red for you, or is that just your powers? What do you see?"

He shrugged. "It's…complicated."

"What's the short answer?"

"Red. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"I thought you wanted the short answer?"

I folded my arms. "Let me rephrase, then. I want the answer that's less than an essay but more than two words."

Scott let out a heavy sigh and began to massage his temples furiously. "When I'm not wearing the glasses? Red mostly, but I also get yellow. I think. I'm pretty sure. It's been ages since the last time I did that. Why are you so curious?"

I bit my lip. "I can't imagine what that must be like."

He looked away. "It's really nothing worth thinking about."

"You don't miss being able to see a wider range of colours?" I questioned.

He remained completely nonchalant. "I'm used to it."

Are you though?

Suddenly, he pulled back. "Jean. Jean, stop. Don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"That. What you're doing right now at this exact second. Stop it."

"How can I stop it if I don't even know what I'm doing?"

"Don't _look_ at me like that!" he had to stop himself from outright screaming. "I'm over it, okay? I'm trying to move on with my life. You staring at me like I'm a sad lost puppy _isn't_ helping."

I looked away. "Sorry."

He groaned. "I didn't mean it like- …look, this is just the way I am. There's just no point in complaining about something that's beyond anyone's control and wallowing in self-pity for the rest of my life."

I stared at him in surprise. Did he literally just say what I think he just said?

"Wow. You've certainly come a long way these past six months."

"Yeah. I get that a lot," he admitted quietly, finally picking up his shirt and slipping into it.

I didn't know if I was relieved or disappointed.

Both.

It's probably both.

"I'm just listening to things people have already told me," he continued, having taken no notice at all of me staring at him in a less than wholesome way. "And I'm going to try getting some semblance of a life back together."

"I'm glad."

I am, Scott. Really. You have no idea.

We fell into a silence.

A silence which didn't last very long before it was promptly broken by Scott.

"Wait. You're telling me that I have scars on my back?"

My eyes narrowed at the abrupt change in subject. "You…didn't know?"

"I can't see my own back, Jean," he pointed out. "Not without a mirror."

"You haven't _looked_ in a mirror?"

"I don't routinely check myself for scars, Jean. Besides, if I can't see scars on my wrists, do you really think I'm going to be able to see scars on my back?"

I sighed a little and didn't argue. I hate it when he does that. When he outlines his argument with sound logic and makes you feel like a total moron for disagreeing. He always has to be right. He has to win. He will outlive God trying to have the last word. You look at him and you think he's all quiet and polite and restrained and he is, but he's also ridiculously competitive and I have this feeling that it wouldn't take much at all to provoke a real reaction out of him if he's rubbed the wrong way. I'm scared that one day he's going to meet someone he hates so much he won't hesitate. Scott is frightened of himself, of what he could end up doing to someone. The thought of him not caring about that is terrifying.

But what I really hate is that shit-eating grin he gets when he knows that he's won.

Rather than continue to think about him and everything I hate about his personality, I ploughed on with the conversation.

"How'd you get them?"

"How am I supposed to know how I got scars I didn't even know I had until a couple of minutes ago?"

"You honestly don't remember sustaining any physical injuries that might've been the cause?"

"Well there was that one time I fell out of a plane."

Wow. He must be in a bizarrely good mood if he's genuinely cracking actual _jokes_ about one the worst things ever to happen to him.

"Aside from that."

"Oh, so we're ruling that out now? It was starting to seem like the sole cause of everything wrong in my life."

"I'd have noticed them sooner if they were plane crash scars," I pointed out.

"You stare at my bare back that often, huh?"

"What? No I- I…shut up."

He grinned. Actually _grinned_ at me. "You're so cute when you're flustered."

I blinked in surprise. This is so unlike you, Scott. "Did you literally just call me _'cute'?"_

Did that actually just happen? Or am I hearing things?

He's displayed more emotions these past five minutes than he has in the past _year_ put together. This must be Warren's doing. It's Warren's fault. That was the kind of thing Warren would've said. Warren is rubbing off on him. They keep hanging out and spending time together and this must be the result of that.

"And she sounds so surprised."

"I don't think you've ever called anyone cute before in your entire life."

"There's a first for everything, isn't there?"

Is he…trying to _flirt_ with me?

What? No. No, of course not. Remember who you're talking about. I'm not sure he even knows what flirting _is. _Then again, I'm not sure _I_ really know what flirting is, either. If I think he's flirting and he's _not_ flirting, I might just die of embarrassment. But on the other hand, if he _is_ flirting and I don't react accordingly, then he'll never do it again and there's no guarantee he'll even recognise it if I do it and we'll be at this awkward will-we-won't-we stage in our lives for the rest of forever.

And I honestly don't know which is worse.

Was he always this close?

Did I just move closer to him without thinking about it?

Oh _my_ god, is this actually happening right now?

This isn't real.

He put his hand to the back of my neck, slowly, like he's trying not to scare me. I could feel his hand shaking ever so slightly against my skin like he's terrified but despite that, despite the obvious fear, I liked it. My breath slowed and I looked up at him curiously.

This cannot be real.

"Scott?"

Is this real?

He didn't answer. I'm not sure why I expected him to.

Really, actually, really seriously _real?_

Slowly, he leaned in, pulling himself closer to me, and then-

And then he kissed me.

And it felt like, finally.

Almost immediately, he pulled away from me, flushing a furious red and his thoughts descending into a completely incoherent mess of noise. "I, uh…I didn't mean-"

Didn't mean what, Scott Summers?

Didn't mean to get so close?

Didn't mean to scare me?

Didn't mean to _kiss_ me?

He's so awkward.

There's fear and nervousness colouring his mind and it's so strong I can barely even feel my own emotions about the previous thirty seconds. He's scrambling, his brain desperately searching for something to say, something that'll make this all go away and make it so it never happened and I don't want that, oh god I don't want to forget that, ever.

_"Shut up,"_ I whispered, pulling myself closer to him and locking lips once again.

I ran my hand through his hair as he wrapped an arm around me and pulled me in as close as possible.

And for just that moment, everything was perfect.

It was real.

Finally, we pulled away from each other, deciding that we'd wasted enough time already and it was probably wise to leave the change room before something came looking. I didn't know what I was going to say. I didn't want to think about it. Scott didn't seem to care. About anything.

Nothing can ruin this.

Absolutely nothing.

"Oh my god, how _long_ does it take for you two to get _changed?"_ Bobby demanded as both Scott and I finally emerged into the mansion proper. "Were you-?"

Immediately, every single piece of furniture began shaking dangerously as my fists clenched.

"Bobby," I called in warning tone. "Not. One. _Word."_

Despite fourteen and an idiot, Bobby decided it was a bad idea to push it and promptly left – proving that he's not completely without sense. Scott, totally unperturbed by any of this, walked over to the couch and practically collapsed onto it, looking more exhausted than ever before.

"Do I want to know what the rest of his sentence was going to be?" he asked tiredly.

"No."

"Right."

There was a brief silence between us.

"He was about to ask if we were having sex, wasn't he?"

"Yeah."

"Oh good."

I paused briefly, before moving to sit down – causing Scott to scramble to make room for me. "I think they've been taking bets."

"On?"

"Us."

"Why don't I find that the least bit surprising?"

"You want to team up against them next Danger Room session?" I suggested quietly after a silence. "Your beams, my telekinesis…we'd have them all on the ground in thirty seconds."

He thought about it.

I knew he was going to tell me it was a bad idea, because despite everything he's still Scott Summers, but the point is, he genuinely paused and he genuinely thought about it. For the briefest moments, he was seriously considering it as a possibility.

"You don't think that's a bit overkill?"

"Nope."


	17. Chapter Seventeen

"Yellow and black spandex uniforms. Aw, _yes!" _Bobby yelled as he just about bounced for joy around the parlour, admiring every angle of his new outfit. "No one can say we're not superheroes now!"

Hank audibly groaned. "Robert Drake, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times. They're _not _spandex. They're made of a strong, durable polyester-"

"Nobody _cares,_ Hank!" he crowed back. "Iceman, Beast, Angel, Marvel Girl and Cyclops-"

"Oh for the _love_ of god, please tell me you're not actually going with _Cyclops,"_ Scott complained loudly from the dark, lonely corner he'd decided to take up residence and brood in.

"-and _Cyclops,_ the original X-Men! Undeniably super-heroic mutants united to fight against evil and protect the world!"

I arched an eyebrow at his words, wondering where on earth he was getting this from. He is just not going to drop the idea. He knows the uniforms are for Danger Room sessions more than anything – or at least, he _should_ know that. He'd _better_ know that. The only thing that makes us anything other than five awkward mutant teenagers is the fact that he keeps insisting that we're something more.

Although, he does have a reason to be happy. This lot is _much_ better than our old uniforms.

I glanced at Scott, leaning against the wall in his corner, arms folded, looking thoroughly unimpressed by everything. It seems to be his default facial expression, or at least it is when Bobby's in the room. The impenetrable dark red lenses completely obscured his eyes so I couldn't tell if he was looking at me or focusing on something else. I shifted a little uncomfortably when upon realising just how much this mattered to me.

Come on, Jean. You've already kissed him, he already kissed you back, what more is there to do? The attraction is there, it's blatant and undeniable; it's so painfully obvious the others noticed it, you both know it's there, how hard can it possibly be to move from that into some kind of relationship?

This needs to be over already.

Is a relationship even what I _want_ from Scott?

He's my friend.

He's my _best friend._

He's the boy next door. He was, literally, the boy next door. For years. He's not that person anymore. He's come so far lately, he's become a young man I can barely recognise when I compare him to the awkward fifteen year old he used to be. I mean, he still is, that cute endearing awkwardness is still there, I don't think that's going anywhere, but he's different now. Somehow.

Perhaps he's just a little older now. A little wiser. Like we all are.

He must've noticed me watching him, because he turned his head slightly in my direction, not fully, but just enough to indicate to me that his attention had shifted to me. I looked down, turning away from him, blushing furiously. This is so awkward. This is so embarrassing. The reality of what happened in the change room yesterday is finally starting to dawn on me. Maybe I should've been doing this back immediately after it happened, but we kind of just fell on the couch and both of us just sort of defaulted back to our normal relationship and it was kind like none of it ever happened.

But it _did_ happen. It really very much _did_ in fact happen. No escaping that fact. The memory is burned into my mind forever.

It had felt so right at the time.

I don't know how to do this. I don't know the right way to go about this. Warren just asked me out and that was it. Boom. Relationship. This is weird. This is weird and stupid and I don't get it. Maybe I'm just better off brushing it all off and never trying to be with anyone, ever. Because this is ridiculous and I'm _supposed _to be a _telepath_ and people _still_ don't make sense to me.

How long has it been since I saw – actually _saw _– his eyes?

They were nice eyes. I remember that much.

I don't remember the colour.

I'm sure if I found a picture or asked him I'd reprimand myself and demand to know how I could have possibly forgotten, but right now I can't for the life of me remember what colour his eyes are. Were. I don't know.

The silence, to me, seemed to last an eternity, but in reality it was probably all of half a second.

"Original? You think we're going to be replaced?" I asked Bobby curiously, dragging myself back into reality.

He shrugged. "Let's face it, we're not going to do it forever. I give Warren two years before he cops out."

Warren opened his mouth to argue this, but thought about it and ended up saying nothing.

"Old people leave, new people come in," Bobby ploughed on. "Life goes on. We're still the original five."

"Original five," Hank repeated quietly. "It's odd, I almost like that better than X-Men."

"What I want to know is who the _hell_ decided on _X-Men_ in the first place?" Warren asked.

"The Professor, actually," Hank mumbled.

"Professor Xavier, Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters, X-Men," Bobby drawled. "We're in the X-Mansion, wearing the X-Uniform…who's up for a spell in the X-Gym?"

"You mean the Danger Room," Scott said with a small sigh.

_"X-Gym."_

_"Danger Room,"_ he insisted. "And to answer your question – no one. _No one_ is up for that."

Bobby folded his arms and huffed. "I don't want to run another session with the _lovers_ anyway."

I immediately stared at the floor, flushing a bright red.

"We're not _lovers,"_ Scott snarled dangerously.

"Oh _yes _you _are._ You think we don't all know about the make-out session you had in the change room yesterday? You're not subtle. But you know what? Fine. Screw you guys. I'll go by _myself."_

"No, Bobby. Don't go by yourself," Warren warned him in a dead serious voice. _"Robert Drake, do not go by yourself! _…Aaaand, he's gone. Please excuse me while I go make sure the popsicle doesn't kill himself. Join me, Hank? I'll likely need the help."

Hank glanced briefly at both me and then Scott and back again several times before he nodded at Warren and following him out of the room.

Why do I get the feeling they left not to go after Bobby, but to have a valid excuse to get away from me and Scott? To be fair to them, I probably would've done the same thing in their place.

Scott stared off after them for a moment.

"You think they'll be okay?"

"They'll be fine," I assured him. "Do you really think this is the first time it's happened?"

"Honestly? No. Not at all. But-"

"Those boys were running Danger Room sessions well before you first got here. They can navigate it without your supervision. Although it's cute of you to worry."

For what seemed like the longest time, he didn't say anything, and a silence more agonisingly awkward than anything I've ever experienced before in my life descended. I stood there, shifting from side to side, biting my lip, wondering why I suddenly found myself completely incapable of talking to someone I've known and been close friends with for at least eight years.

That's it. Never kiss your friends. Ever. It's a rule now. Jean's rule of life, do not ever, _ever_ kiss your friend unless you're drunk, or really certain that it will not end in this kind of excruciating torture.

"Let's go somewhere," he piped up suddenly.

I pulled away from him slightly, eyebrows rising in surprise. "Right now?"

"Why not? It's been ages since I've been anywhere outside the Institute, let alone somewhere _nice."_

"Are- …are you asking me on a _date,_ Scott Summers?"

He immediately bit his lip. "…ye-yes? I mean, if that's okay. If you want to. You did kiss me yesterday, I thought-"

"Scott? You're doing it again."

"Doing- doing what?"

"Getting unnecessarily flustered," I told him quietly. "What exactly did you want to do?"

He pulled back a little in surprise at my question, before smiling awkwardly and rubbing the back of his neck, trying to find some way to distract himself from reality.

"I, uh…honestly? I have no idea. I didn't think I'd get this far."

I arched an eyebrow at him. "You didn't think you'd pluck up enough courage to ask me out? Even after we _literally made out?"_

"Half of me is still mostly convinced that never actually happened."

I placed my hand on his shoulder and stretched up onto my tip toes to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

"Do I need to remind you?"

He immediately flushed a furious red. "Yes. I-I mean, no. I mean _yes,_ but- no. Not like- …I hate you."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. You try making someone who's usually so tall and imposing and generally absurdly intimidating go bright red and get flustered to the point he trips over his words without laughing. You can't. It's just not physically possible.

"Do you…want to go for a walk?" I suggested pleasantly.

"Sure. Why not. Anything that means this conversation is over."

I smiled crookedly and gestured at the door. "After you."

He didn't move a single step. "Oh no. Ladies first. I insist."

Is it bad that I can't tell if he's trying to be chivalrous, or just annoying? Shouldn't I be able to tell? I could tell. I could take a peek inside his mind and I'd know everything he does.

Jean.

Not here. Not now. Not with Scott. Never without his permission.

I slowly made my way outside, my hand trailing down his arm as I moved further away from him before gripping his wrist and pulling him out with me. It came off a little seductive. I'm not sure that's the angle I was going for, but it seemed fine. Mostly. He smiled. For a while. Then it was back to serious business focus on important things. Worry about other people because somehow he's convinced himself that he's the closest thing in the Institute to a responsible adult, other than Professor Xavier himself.

I wonder if it's possible to make him relax for more than three seconds.

"Bobby will be fine," I told him as we turned down the driveway and headed for the gates.

"What?"

"You look worried. Bobby will be fine. He's always fine. He's more powerful than he lets on. He just…doesn't quite have the maturity to confront the reality of his own situation yet. He's not like you."

"What does that even mean?"

"You know how you were forced to acknowledge the danger and scope of your powers almost the exact second they manifested?"

He looked away and didn't say anything, and I didn't have to be a telepath to know what he was thinking.

_Please don't remind me._

"That doesn't happen to everyone immediately. I think the reality of what he's actually capable of is barely beginning to dawn on him."

When you think about it, when you _really_ think about it, about Bobby and what he can do already at the tender age of fourteen, the implications of what will happen or how his powers will end up developing is actually kind of terrifying. And I think Bobby knows that. I think he's more aware of it than anyone thinks he is. I think he keeps talking about being a superhero because he desperately wants to prove to himself that despite that, despite being scary and powerful, he can still be a good person. Still be seen as a good person.

And I think it's so vitally important to him that he's never going to let the idea go until it actually is reality.

Sometimes I get the strangest things from people's minds, things that if people found out I knew they would treat me completely differently. I haven't yet decided if that's a good thing or a bad thing yet. Everyone has their thing; everyone has their greatest insecurities, things that control the way they are, the way they act, who they are as people. Scott needs to be in control. Hank needs to be right. Warren needs to be perfect. Bobby needs to be good. Professor Xavier needs to help. Needs things to change. Needs to atone for past mistakes. Needs to redeem himself for letting the people closest to him slip away.

And me?

I don't know about me. I have all this insight into other people no one else has ever had before and yet I can't deconstruct the inner workings of my own mind. I don't know who I am. I don't know what I am.

I am fire. And life incarnate.

"Do you think it'll actually happen?" Scott asked quietly, causing me to snap back into reality.

I turned to face him, eyebrows rising with curiosity. "What do you mean?"

He sighed. "Us. Superheroes."

I shrugged. "I can't say for sure. But then, who's going to stop us?"

"Everybody who has anything against mutants ever," he answered dully.

"I'd like to see them _try_ to stop us."

Scott stopped. "There. See? That's what they're afraid of, right there. That's why people hate us. How do you know this isn't just a one-way ticket to them hating us even more?"

"I'm not following you," I murmured, brow furrowed. "How does _protecting _them make them hate us?"

"Oh come _on._ It's more than that and you know it. The missile crisis in the sixties, the attack on the Whitehouse a decade later, the vast majority of the time it's _mutants_ attacking people in the first place. We've shown, time and time again, that we're more than capable of destroying the world as they know it. You think we're going to get them onside by getting into fights with people like _Magneto?"_

"Better to _try,_ right?" I argued. "What's our alternative? Do nothing, offer no resistance at all and let people like that win?"

"If we _do _fight, then we're a public menace, and the cause of everything bad that has ever happened."

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do," he muttered darkly.

"I'm sorry, did you suddenly develop powers of prophecy while I wasn't looking?"

"People aren't that hard to work out," he reasoned quietly. "Humanity has a history of lashing out against what they're afraid of. They're afraid of us, of mutants in general. Do you really think demonstrating just how powerful some of us are is going to terrify them into submission? People don't do that. They cling to dominance, and they're not going to suffer a threat like us."

"We're not a threat."

"Oh _yes_ we _are,"_ he contradicted me, his fingers lightly tracing the frame of his glasses.

I opened my mouth to argue, but very quickly decided against it. I instead opted to watch him carefully, my eyes lingering on the impenetrable dark red lenses of his glasses that hid so much from me. The glasses that are the only thing between the raw destructive power that threatened to destroy everything and the rest of world. And I had to concede his point.

Oh yes we are.

"We can change things," I murmured. "We have these abilities and we can use them to protect people. Maybe they won't love us instantly, maybe it'll be a lot of hard work, but we _can _change how people see us, and mutants in general."

"We're just _kids,_ Jean."

"We're a whole lot more than just kids and you know it, Scott."

He looked at me, smiling ever so slightly. "You really think we can change the world?"

"I think the world is already changing," I replied quietly. "And I think we need to do whatever we can to make sure it's for the better."

"You sound too good to be true sometimes."

I laughed. "Don't say that. Now I'm terrified all I can do now is disappoint you."

"I'm not sure that's possible."

"You think so? What if I went crazy and threatened to destroy the world?"

He laughed too. "Okay. Maybe I'd be a little disappointed if that happened."

"You should count yourself lucky you're on my good side."

He wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me slightly closer to him. "I wouldn't ever dream of being otherwise."


	18. Chapter Eighteen

It was supposed to be our weekend off. Our first actual break in ages. The first time we'd been set loose on the town, the first time we'd been allowed to wander around and be normal, to do normal things in what felt like an eternity. It was all so perfectly innocent at first. We were just hanging out at a café, talking shit to each other and relishing our brief stint of freedom. Of normality. For the first time in forever, we were just a group of five kids, no different from anyone else.

The waitress who served us left Warren her number. Bobby cacked himself laughing and refused to leave it alone, making constant jokes about it. Warren tried to be annoyed, but he was too pleased with himself for having gotten the girl's number in the first place. Hank remained quiet and polite as he tried to convince Bobby not to make too much of a scene, ever the perfect gentleman. Scott sat hunched and silent in the corner, pale and edgy, jumping every time someone touched him or addressed him, always having one hand on his glasses like he was terrified they would slip off. I don't know why I was surprised. Scott always hated being in public, crowded places, even before he turned out to possess an uncontrollable concussive energy beam of death and destruction.

And I sat back, revelling in the freedom and normality I'd been allowed. The freedom and normality I'd been striving to attain for seems like and very could've been years.

It was supposed to be good.

It was supposed to be fine.

It was _supposed_ to be just a normal day, like any other.

It…didn't turn out that way.

And I don't suppose it was ever going to turn out that way.

Because we're not normal. We don't deserve normal lives. We're doomed to insanity forever.

All of a sudden, completely without any kind of warning, we found ourselves facing a looming metal monster, fully armed with god knows what kind of weapons and fully intending to destroy us utterly. I took a step back, horrified and shocked that people would truly go this far. That they'd revisit this. I was terrified. I couldn't think. I couldn't keep calm. This thing…this _thing…_

It's going to kill us.

We're going to die.

Right here, right now. This is it, this is the end for Jean Grey. Killed by some humongous machine designed to massacre people like me.

"Get _down, Jean!"_ I heard Scott scream at me, grabbing me and using his momentum to send us both straight to the ground as a small explosion erupted from where we had just been standing a few seconds ago. I turned to face him, unable to rid myself of the fear that coursed through me.

What if I die?

What if _he_ dies?

I can't lose him. I can't. I don't want to even entertain the possibility.

He was up almost immediately, dragging me up with him and pulling both of us around a corner, out of the immediate line of fire. Hank, Warren and Bobby took barely any time meeting up with us as we hid from the monstrosity that was trying to annihilate us.

We're kids.

We're just kids.

We never did anything wrong. We've never hurt anyone, never attacked anyone. Why are they doing this? Why are they trying to kill us?

The others seemed to be reacting in much the same way I was. All of them except Scott, who stood there, looking increasingly irritated.

"This is _not_ how I'd anticipated spending my day," he hissed, ripping his glasses off, revealing closed eyes for just a fraction of a second before pulling out his visor from his jacket pocket and securing that to his face.

He has it with him?

He had it with him this _whole time?_

Somehow I'm not even surprised.

_Of _course he has it on him. Scott really is just that paranoid, it seems. I suppose we're fortunate in that it's well-placed paranoia.

"Ha- _Beast,_ circle it, see if you can't find a weak point. Angel, go airborne, keep it distracted. Iceman, cover Angel. Marvel Girl, set up a telepathic link. We'll protect Beast – if anyone finds a possible way to take it down, preferably _without_ blowing it up, you let everyone else know immediately via the link. Clear?"

The three other boys nodded, no one even bothering to question why Scott had decided to take charge. All of a sudden, the dorky teenager was gone, replaced with a young man I didn't know at all. All of a sudden, despite being sixteen, despite being the second youngest only to Bobby, despite being terrified of his own powers and what he can do, he's commanding respect, easily assuming the leadership role.

He's so calm.

How can he be so calm?

We're going to die.

We're going to die, and all Scott is doing is walking calmly into the gaping jaws of death and expecting us all to follow without protest. And he did it so confidently I almost did exactly that.

All around me, people were screaming, running, fighting to get away.

Get away.

It'll kill us.

Why is it here?

Because it's after us.

After me.

After us goddamn mutants.

Goddamn _fucking mutants._

Bobby grinned, looking ecstatic. "You used the _codenames."_

Scott was not amused, and his hardened, unreadable expression never changed. "Am I _clear, _Iceman?"

Bobby's grin, if possible, widened, and he did a little mock salute. "Cover Angel. On it, Cyclops."

Without another word, Warren unfurled his wings and shot up into the sky with a finesse no normal human being could possibly match. Within seconds, Bobby shifted into his full ice form and disappeared after them, while Hank nodded curtly at Scott and moved back, out of the sentinel's line of view.

This is insane.

This isn't actually happening.

"Jean," Scott called my name harshly. _"Focus."_

I'd never heard him talk like that before.

I closed my eyes briefly and tried to breathe. I focused. After a few seconds, my eyes snapped open.

_We're linked,_ I informed everyone telepathically, trying to keep my focus and keep everyone connected despite the fact that I was panicking and it's _really _hard to maintain a telepathic link when you're panicking.

Scott, who was no longer the Scott I knew, nodded curtly. "Okay. Go."

And we all ran, all in different directions. I didn't think about the others. I couldn't use telekinesis while also trying to maintain a telepathic link. It's too many things at once. The best thing I can do is get to cover and focus on keeping everyone connected. I've never done this for more than a few minutes before. I've certainly never done anything like this in any kind of combat situation.

I'm useless.

I'm so useless.

If I could just…if I could learn to use both my abilities at once…that'd be one hell of a deadly combination. And most importantly, I'd be able to help more than just run and hide. I'm supposed to be the powerful. Running and hiding isn't supposed to be what I do.

And yet, here I am. Hiding.

_It's a new model,_ Hank's voice called out suddenly, echoing around my head and since I was connected to everyone else, their heads as well. _A complete redesign from the ones that attacked the White House in the seventies. I don't recognise it, and I don't see any obvious weak points._

_Wow, Hank, that's amazing!_ Warren snapped back. _I'll just keep this up until it shoots me or I drop dead of exhaustion, shall- holy crap! Bobby! You're _supposed_ to be _covering_ me!_

_Oh sorry, I was a little distracted. Where are you?_

Four idiot teenage guys in my head.

That's a smart idea.

That's a really great idea, Scott.

_Jean?_ I heard Bobby address me. _You…you know we can hear your thoughts too, right?_

_Look, I hate to be the annoying one here,_ Scott interjected suddenly. _But, giant robot. Trying to kill us. Maybe focus?_

I'm sure someone would've replied to that, but the sound of rapidly firing bullets peppering the brick wall of a nearby building drowned out almost all else.

And then;

_Jean! It's coming your way!_

My head snapped up as the ground shook with the power and weight behind the sentinel's footsteps. I staggered to my feet, movement which in all honesty probably caught its attention more than anything. I watched it come closer, rooted to the spot and unable to move.

It raised its arm, aiming to shoot me, and everything seemed to slow right down.

Run.

You need to run.

You have to get out here, out of the line of fire.

I staggered backwards, raised my hands up and the thing was thrown backwards, straight into the buildings on the other side of the street. The world immediately went a little hazy from the sudden release of energy and I hit the wall, shaking. It didn't have the same problem. It simply got up again, and went straight back to attacking.

That's the thing about robots. They don't get wounded. They keep going until they can no longer function.

And the thing about _sentinels _is that they're designed to hunt down, attack, capture and sometimes – frequently – kill their targets. Targets that can and usually will fight back with a little more power than your average human being. So of course it's not going to go down that easy.

My fists clenched. Well, fine. I can fight too.

I fought back a cry of pain as the asphalt cracked and split beneath my feet and the sentinel was lifted off its feet. I gasped desperately for air and sank to my knees, desperate to keep it in the air even as it moved and struggled – if a robot is even really capable of _struggling_ – even though I've never lifted something that big that can move before. It's harder when it can move. Cars and buses and things like that don't move. It's so much easier.

For a brief second, my vision flashed white and I let out a harsh scream. Then, all of a sudden, without any warning whatsoever, everything around me, the entire world seemed to light up with an almost blindingly bright crimson light and there was a blast of heat and the sound of shrapnel raining down and hitting the ground all around me.

_"Jean!"_ an urgent voice yelled, as footsteps made their way over to me. I felt hands clasp my shoulders with a firm yet somehow gentle grip. "Jean, look at me. Are you okay? _Jean?"_

I glanced up to see Scott watching me, looking terrified.

I pushed him away. "I'm fine. I'm_ fine,_ Scott."

I'm not fine.

I'm not at all fine.

"Oh my god!" Bobby crowed, sliding on over to us. "Did you see that? Did you all just _see_ that?!"

"We _saw it,_ Iceman," Warren answered as he landed with the grace of an Olympic gymnast. "Mind _warning_ me next time you decide to do that, Summers? You almost shot me out of the sky."

"I tried," Scott answered flatly. "Jean dropped the link."

"Well _excuse_ me, _Cyclops!"_ I snarled. "Why don't _you_ try maintaining a telepathic link while being shot at? _And_ using telekinesis?"

"I wasn't-"

"Oh and, way to employ a double standard, Cyke," Bobby cut in. _"Don't blow it up._ Then what do you go and do? If you knew you could take it out that easily, why didn't you lead with that? Why waste time dancing around when you knew you could just annihilate it?"

"I said _preferably_ don't blow it up," Scott shot back icily. "And if I'd _led_ with that, half the street would be destroyed. I was _trying _to avoid collateral damage. That should've been obvious."

"And who put _you_ in charge?" Warren snapped.

_"No one,_ but I didn't see anyone _else-"_

"You didn't really give us much of a _chance,_ Summers."

Scott just shook his head and rather than reply, he swiftly turned around and kicked one of the countless fragments of the destroyed sentinel. It skittered away from him, across the road until it hit the curb.

"I thought the Sentinel Program was _discontinued?"_ he snarled.

"It certainly does raise some questions," Hank mused, picking up one of the twisted pieces of metal and analysing it closely. "But firstly, I believe it would be wise if we exited the area post-haste."

Warren rolled his shoulders back and exhaled loudly, flexing his wings. "I could _not _agree more with that sentiment. I'm getting out of here before people start screaming _freak._ Or _Cyclops_ here decides to permanently take command."

_"Warren-"_ Scott began tiredly, but he'd already taken off, Bobby racing after him, leaving nothing but a trail of ice behind. Hank looked at me, then at Scott, before quickly chasing after the other two. Once he was gone, Scott slumped against the wall, looking exhausted, before noticing that I was still there, rooted to the spot.

"Go on," he hissed. "You're pissed at me too, right? Why hang around?"

I opened my mouth to argue, before thinking better of it. I don't need this right now. So I just rolled my eyes, turned heel and sprinted down the street.

I don't need this right now. I don't need any of this. I need to go home, take a long bath, get the blood and sweat and grime off me and forget any of this ever happened.

Superheroes.

Yeah, right.

That's not what this world needs. _We're _not what this world needs. We're not even what this world _wants._

It wasn't a far walk to the Institute, although walking up the hill made me really quite envious of Warren. I can technically fly, but no amount of telekinesis will give me the speed and grace with which he can travel. That, and he can go higher than me, so he doesn't have to worry about people seeing him. Even though I'm not sure how that's still a problem when I just-

…whatever. Normal. Be normal. Claim what little amounts of normal there is still left to be had.

Once I was safely inside the Institute, I headed up the stairs to the nearest bathroom.

Because I need a shower.

I was going to have a bath, but that takes too long and right now all I want to do is be clean and then go straight to bed and maybe die for a few days. And when Professor Xavier tells me to do schoolwork or practice my powers I will show him how far I've come by telekinetically slamming the door.

Even though I've been slamming doors with telekinesis since I first _got_ telekinesis.

It's still technically an improvement.

I leaned into the shower, turning the water on before stripping, giving it time to heat up. I paused for a moment, standing stark naked in the middle of the pristinely white bathroom. For what seemed like an eternity, I simply stood there, staring mindlessly into space, not really thinking about anything.

This feels so oddly freeing.

Slowly, I stepped into the shower, letting the warm water run over my skin, trying to ease the tension in my muscles.

We were just attacked by a sentinel.

A giant, heavily armed, mutant hunting robot that exists for the sole purpose of eradicating people like us, since we're a threat to the peace.

The Sentinel Program was discontinued back in 1973. Why the government has suddenly seen fit to bring it back, I don't know. I'm not sure I want to know. Either they've re-evaluated the threat mutants pose and have decided that it's worth the risk, or something happened that changed their minds, or something – some_one_ – has manipulated key people into bringing it back. There are a bunch of anti-mutant hate groups that would rejoice in the news of the return of the sentinels; the Friends of Humanity, for one. If this is the result of someone pulling strings, then that means there's someone who wants to commit genocide high up enough within the government that people will listen to them.

And that's terrifying to think about.

I sighed heavily and closed my eyes as water ran over my face.

I can't think about this now.

I can't think about this, ever.

I have my own problems that need their own solutions. We all do. The fact that I nearly died today means nothing. I didn't die. I'm still very much alive. I owe it to myself and everyone around me to continue living as normal. This isn't my problem. It was never my problem. I never did anything wrong. It _shouldn't_ be my problem. The fact that it's become my problem irritates me to no end.

I've never seen Scott act like that. Never heard him talk like that, issuing orders with such an air of authority no one dares question him. I don't know what I expected. I don't know who I thought would take control like that. Scott loves control, he needs it to function, but he's never shown any inkling of being a _leader_ before. Not to me, at any rate.

It was too easy to completely lose track of time in the shower. It was probably something like forty minutes later when I remembered the others were probably back by now as well and I've likely wasted some amazing quantity of water. With a small sigh, I shut the water off, grabbed a towel and quickly dried myself off before getting dressed and heading back to my room.

Maybe I should call my parents. Before they see the sentinel attack on the news and completely freak out.

Yeah. Sure. I can see that going over _so_ smoothly.

What were you _thinking,_ Jean, using your powers so recklessly? You know better than that. You need to train, to keep it under control. You shouldn't use it in public. You shouldn't use it ever.

Sometimes I get the feeling that, despite all their insisting that they still love me no matter what, they'd probably prefer it if I wasn't the way I am. I get the feeling all our parents are like that. Warren's especially. Ugh, Warren's parents. I used to wonder why Warren, a reasonably laid back and relaxed person, got so uptight at the mere mention of his family. Then I met his parents, and everything was suddenly explained to me. That was one _hell_ of an awkward dinner.

I've little doubt his ever present, never ceasing desire to please his parents is what ultimately drove Warren to trying to saw his wings off when he was a child. And I suppose I should find comfort in the fact that Warren is now at a point in his life where he's able to accept who and what he is.

We're all so messed up. As far as I can tell, Hank is the _only_ one out of the five of us who has had no real trouble with his abilities, and no weird screwed up emotions regarding the whole 'mutant' thing. Hank McCoy, certified genius, football star, and generally likable guy with no real obvious faults.

Something will trip him up one day. I know it. That's just the way life is for people like us.

"Tell me you didn't know about this," I heard Scott's voice snarl viciously as I walked past his door, still wringing the water from my hair.

There was a brief pause.

"…does it _matter?"_

I stopped, and bit my lip. He sounded so upset. More upset than he'd been in a long time. It sounded as if he was on the phone to someone. I couldn't imagine who. I couldn't imagine anyone Scott would get in an argument with over the phone. He doesn't ring people. Doesn't text. In fact, he barely uses his phone at all. Most of the reason why he has one at all is so he can assure his family that he's still alive occasionally.

"Tell me you didn't know. Tell me you didn't just let this happen."

He sounded really angry. Like, borderline _I'm-going-to-kill-someone_ kind of angry.

I should walk away.

I really, _really _need to walk away, to let it sort itself out. It's not my problem, and Scott's not going to like it if he finds out I'm eavesdropping on him. I managed to go exactly one step before;

"You're avoiding the _question,_ Dad!"

I froze completely.

His dad.

He's arguing with his _father._

Scott _loves_ his dad. Scott _idolises_ his dad. Scott wants to _be_ his dad. Scott used to _gush_ about his dad when we were kids. There was always this distinct tone of pride in his voice every time the subject even came up. He loved his dad. He looked up to his dad. He used to want to be a pilot, just like his dad. That's all he ever wanted to be, all he ever wanted to do. He wanted to be a pilot in the Air Force. He wanted to fly planes. He wanted to help people. He wanted to save lives. He wanted to be a hero. He wanted to be the person he saw his dad as.

Scott doesn't argue with his parents. Ever. Especially not his father. It just doesn't happen.

"We're talking about machines designed to hunt down and _kill_ people like me! _How_ am I not involved here?!"

I blinked in surprise. He's arguing with his father over the _sentinel?_

"That's not the _point!"_ he roared so loudly I jumped back, away from the door in surprise. "It _attacked_ us! Jean almost _killed_ herself trying to stop it!"

I need to leave.

I can't just stand here, eavesdropping.

"I don't _care_ that it went AWOL! _Why_ did it _exist_ in the first place? Why is the government allowing for their construction?!"

I've never heard him be so angry. I thought he was angry when he was arguing with Hank over measuring his optic blasts. But this is his father. The one person I don't think he's ever gotten angry at ever before in his life, which is sort of saying something because he's _sixteen_ and just about every sixteen year old in _existence_ has had some clash with their parents at some point in their lives.

Scott sighed loudly, sounding exhausted and dejected.

"I'm just wondering how you can stand by as the government approves the manufacturing of heavily armed robots designed specifically to _kill_ mutants when it's your own _son_ at risk," I heard him say, his voice hard and cold. Icy, even.

Before I could move, before I could do anything at all, the door was wrenched open and I yelped in surprise and jumped back, a split second before Scott would've crashed straight into me.

He glanced at me, before shaking his head and heading down the hallway.

"What was that?" I called after his retreating back.

"Nothing," he answered shortly, not stopping or even looking at me.

I followed him. "Why were you arguing with your dad?"

He stopped and whirled around to face me. He looked pale and exhausted and sick and generally wrecked. I wasn't sure if that was from the fight, or from stress, or from something else. A headache, maybe. It's always a headache.

"If you already knew what it was, why bother asking?"

"I just-"

He groaned and turned away once more. "Forget it."

Before he could make even one step, he staggered, falling against the wall and remaining there for what seemed like an eternity, breathing hard. He's not okay. He's less okay than normal.

I made my way over to him. "Scott, you're not well."

"I'm_ fine,"_ he insisted, pushing me away and disappearing into the nearest bathroom, slamming the door behind him.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Professor Charles Xavier was gravely concerned about the shenanigans his charges had managed to get up to in his absence and consequently had us all hauled off to his office the longest and angriest lecture he'd ever given any of us in the history of ever. Really. I'd never seen him so furious with any of us before. Even when we yell and snap and argue and things end up getting destroyed. He never gets mad. Not like this.

"You could've been _killed,"_ he had to stop himself outright screaming, looking pale and exhausted and more like a stricken parent than I'd ever thought him capable. _"All_ of you! What were you thinking?"

His angry words were met with almost absolute silence. None of us had anything to say. Nothing to defend ourselves with. Quickly, I cast an edgy glance at Scott, unable to stop worrying about him since he'd almost fainted in front of me. He said he was fine. He most clearly was not at all fine. He hasn't been fine all day. Even before the sentinel came into the picture, he'd been jumpy and tense and generally not acting okay.

Even now, he was standing off to the side, staring aimlessly ahead, still and silent, taking in Professor Xavier's anger like a professional while inside his head he fretted about everything he did wrong, going over the entire fight over and over again, carefully analysing every single aspect of the entire ordeal and berating himself for not doing better. For not thinking of some obscure detail that never would've occurred to anyone else, ever.

And it was exhausting just listening to it. Especially when it was combined with everyone else's thought processes. Hank was reaffirming that no one was hurt in the chaos. Bobby was torn between euphoria of having been in a real fight and sheer terror of what would happen, what this would mean, and how the public would react and what this truly meant for him, for all of us. Meanwhile, Warren was fuming about…everything.

I tried to pull away, to block it out, to give him the dignity and privacy I tried to give everyone, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn't completely distance myself.

_Scott,_ I called to him. _Stop. You're giving me a headache._

His head snapped up and he shot me an odd look, opening his mouth to say something, but thinking better of it. Rather than do anything useful, he simply ploughed on with his pre-established thought process, ignoring me completely.

_That's not what I call 'stopping'._

His expression hardened. _Stay out of my head if it bothers you._

At this point, I'd love to. Believe me.

"Respectfully, Professor, it attacked _us,"_ Hank pointed out quietly after what seemed like an age.

Warren folded his arms angrily. "It only attacked us after we started using our powers against it. If _Scott_ hadn't insisted we fight the damn thing, the entire fiasco could've been avoided."

Scott shot him a dangerous glare. "It was a _sentinel,_ Warren. They're specifically designed to identify and attack anyone with an active x-gene. Do you _really_ think it would've just left us alone? The _real_ question is how and why it existed at all."

"Why the hell does that even _matter?"_

"It _matters_ because wherever it came from, there are probably more. One has already attacked us."

"That doesn't mean it'll happen again."

"Is that _really_ a risk you want to _take?"_

"It doesn't affect us!"

"Warren," Bobby called quietly. "Dude. They hunt down mutants. We _are_ mutants. If they're making them again, it really kinda does affect us."

I blinked in surprise. The world has become twisted indeed if _Bobby _is actually taking this with such a degree of seriousness and he's being a voice of reason. Warren's expression hardened and he remained silent.

"I would like to know how and why it went rogue in the first place," Hank said quietly, after a small pause. "And why they didn't immediately shut it down."

_"If_ it went rogue," Scott muttered.

We all turned to look at him.

"You're saying it didn't?" I asked, my eyebrows raised incredulously.

Please don't say that.

I don't even want to entertain the possibility.

Scott immediately looked away. "I'm not _saying_ anything. But the _last_ time sentinels went rogue they killed a lot of people and the president was almost assassinated. You'd think they would put something in place to avoid it happening again. This whole thing…it just seems off."

He had a point.

No one else seemed to want to admit it, but he _did_ have a point, and pretty good one.

Why, though?

What could attacking a group of young mutants and forcing them to defend themselves in broad daylight and full view of the general possibly achieve? Mutants are already a forefront problem according to just about everyone, ever. It's not like you're revealing anything, or even changing anything. People don't need to try or really do anything to convince people that we're dangerous. All this achieves is slightly more dissent targeted at an already victimised and oppressed minority.

There's no point.

There is just no point in this at all.

Professor Xavier let out a loud, exhausted sigh, clearly uncomfortable with the reminder of the attack, since it was his friends at the time who were involved.

"Scott is right."

Warren gaped, outraged. "But _Professor-!"_

_"Enough._ I will look into this matter myself. What's important is that you are all safe. In the meantime, training must become a priority. You were ill-equipped to fight and I won't allow it to happen again."

"We did actually get out alive, Professor," Bobby pointed out. "No one even got hurt."

"That is no excuse to grow complacent, Robert," he argued. "If this happens again, you need to be prepared. You need to know how to work together, as a team. There are far more powerful and dangerous foes than a single sentinel out there and you need to be prepared to meet them."

_I had hoped…I was a fool to think I could avoid this._

I jumped slightly as I caught the stray thought, and quickly found myself staring at Professor Xavier in shock, not knowing how to react. I usually don't get anything from him. He's a powerful, highly skilled telepath who knows how shield his thoughts from others who share the same ability. For me to get any kind of read on him, he has to allow it. Normally, at least. I get the feeling that particular thought wasn't one he deliberately allowed me to pick up, though. Which means he either slipped for a second, lost himself for just a brief instance, or I am growing steadily out of control.

And there is just no way he would've slipped after decades of perfectly maintained composure.

Which means…

Not another fluctuation. Not here. Not _now._

I can't do this. This can't be happening to me. I'm not prepared for this. Professor Xavier is worried enough about me as it is. If I tell him it's started growing this steadily again despite his efforts to help me maintain control over it, he'll resort to reinstating the mental blocks that he put in place when I was ten years old. It's his last resort. The only reason he did it in the first place was because it was the only way to coax me back, to re-join the world of the living after spending weeks in a catatonic state. At the time my parents were desperate, telling him, _begging_ him to do whatever he could.

I wanted to control it. I wanted to master it. I wanted to prove to myself, to _everyone_ that I _can_ control it.

But the reality of the situation is, I don't know my own limits. I may never know. And that's more dangerous than anyone will ever tell you. Because the only other person here who is this wildly out of control knows his powers. Understands his limits, what he can and can't do. I don't have that. I don't have the luxury of limits and boundaries like a normal person.

I am power. I am everything. I am fire and life incarnate.

Maybe this thought was louder than I thought, or I'd been projecting without meaning to, because Professor Xavier's eyes narrowed and he immediately looked to me.

"You in particular, Jean."

I looked down, not bothering to argue. I couldn't argue. "Yes, sir."

"Can we go now?" Warren asked, tired and angry and clearly not wanting to deal with this anymore.

"You're all excused," Professor Xavier sighed, gesturing for all of us to leave his study.

One by one, we filed out, quiet, sullen, and dejected. I stopped at the door and turned, waiting for Scott, who seemed rooted to the spot. The instant he noticed me, he almost rushed to the door, only for the professor to call out once more.

"Scott, please stay. I'd like a word."

Both Scott and I exchanged a curious glance before he motioned for me to go, smiling ever so slightly as if to reassure me that he would be fine. Slowly, I made my way out into the hall, carefully and quietly closing the door behind me.

Today has been a mess. A complete, total, unapologetic mess, and not what I had anticipated. Not what any of us anticipated. It's insane and it's stupid and it doesn't make any sense and we're literally just a bunch of teenagers who are trying to carve out some kind of place in the world for ourselves – like every other teenager ever to exist. Asking us to deal with powers and plots and killer robots on top of that is just ridiculous.

Even the general _idea_ of sentinels makes no sense.

Oh yeah, we've manufactured these huge machines for the sole purpose of singling out those who fit a certain set of criteria and then to attack and occasionally even kill them. What? No, it's not horrific and discriminatory at _all._ What are you talking about?

Some mutants use their powers in less than savoury ways. No one is denying that. But we're not all like that. Some of us are trying to do something worthwhile. Not that it does anything to stop the mutants who do go on rampaging killing sprees.

Not all mutants are out for blood. But yes all humans are threatened by the ones who are.

People fear what they know will kill them.

So what's the answer here?

Are we just going to let this all get completely out of hand until we're facing a full scale war?

Is that really what everyone wants? Mutants versus humans, powers versus technology? An outright massacre? Why can't people see that's exactly where we're headed unless someone stops it? Why don't people realise that they're steering the world and themselves towards oblivion? Where does hatred get us? You'd have to be a fool to not recognise where this is going.

Everything is at stake here and _no one _seems to care.

"This is insane," Warren muttered angrily, breaking me out of my train of thought and bringing me harshly back to reality. "None of this should be happening."

I sighed quietly. "I don't understand why you're so upset. If Scott hadn't stepped in and taken charge when he did, we all would've panicked."

"I'm not angry about _Scott,"_ he insisted.

"Then _why_ are you taking this out on him?" I demanded. "Warren, you're one of the only real friends he has. You'd have to be a total idiot to not see how this is hurting him."

Well, not exactly. If he was a normal person who didn't _know _Scott, he'd have no hope of knowing his reaction. But that's not what Warren is, and he knows. I know he knows. He _has_ to know.

"I'm not taking it out on him."

"Yes you bloody well _are."_

"Look, it's _not_ about that!"

"Then what _is_ it about?"

Warren turned away, running his hand through his hair and letting out a long, harsh sigh of exasperation. He flexed his wings, something he does on reflex when he gets agitated, I noticed. He's been growing increasingly antsy lately, and I don't really know why. I'd never really seen him like this before. Even when we were dating, he didn't act like this.

"I just can't deal with this shit, alright?" he told me quietly. "All this superhero mutant bullshit. This isn't what I signed up for."

My eyes narrowed at the comment. "And what did you sign up for, exactly?"

"I don't know," he admitted quietly. "My parents sent me here so they wouldn't have to deal with me. I don't know what I expected. It just…it wasn't this."

Before I could reply, before I could even open my mouth to say anything, he groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose before turning heel and walking away.

I sighed and shook my head before descending the stairs.

I can't. I can't do this anymore.


	20. Chapter Twenty

It was some unearthly hour when I finally decided that sleep was not going to take me.

It wouldn't have been so bad if it was only my own feelings and thoughts and memories of the fight with the sentinel that plagued me. Normally, it would be. Instead I lay motionless on my bed, staring aimlessly at the ceiling as Hank was pored over the surviving footage from the sentinel attack on the White House, as Warren tossed and turned and grumbled about his wings cramping up no matter how he slept, and as Bobby fretted over what it meant, over what all of it meant, about what this meant for us and for the world and for mutants in general. My own anxiety was getting to a point where it was becoming almost crippling. Everyone else's on top of that was not helping. At all. In the slightest. I even felt the soft mental presence of Professor Xavier, though I couldn't discern what he was thinking, or even doing. Only that he was awake, like everyone else inside the mansion.

And _Scott-_

Scott was…being unusually quiet. And not in the way someone is quiet when they're asleep.

Perhaps that meant something. I didn't care to find out what.

Why didn't I see this coming? Why did I think I could get away from this clean? How did I even begin to entertain the notion that I would be able to have a normal life, to be a normal person with a normal existence? It was always going to end in blood and violence. It was always heading that way. You can try your best to change people's minds, but the people whose opinions can be swayed _aren't_ the ones attacking us. It's the people who are so solid in their convictions, who hate with such a passion that it drives them to kill us, to purge us all from existence who are the real threat. And with people like that, you can't just change their minds. There is no room for friendly debate. People like that will respond only to fear, and to blood.

I don't know.

Maybe there's a reason mutants fight. Maybe there's a reason we _should_ fight. All of us. To utterly crush the malcontents, to silence any remaining voices of dissent. God knows trying to be peaceful and change minds by example is very quickly getting us absolutely _nowhere._

Maybe he's right.

Maybe Magneto is right.

They'll hunt us down like animals and they'll kill us if we don't _do_ something. If we don't lift a finger to defend ourselves, they will seize their opportunity and we'll _all_ die. Killed by men and women too scared to see us as anything else but monsters. Who _refuse_ to see us as anything else but monsters; waiting, lurking under the bed, ready to destroy the world they've built.

The world they've built is flawed. It's corrupt and it's wicked and it's cruel and maybe it's so far gone that the only way to change, the only way to progress is burn it all down and allow it to start again, to rise from ashes and be born anew.

All we have to do is light the flame.

I tumbled out of bed, before making my way over my wardrobe and grabbing a jacket before pulling it on over my pyjamas. Slowly, quietly, I cracked my bedroom door open and peeked out, watching carefully for any signs of life. When the hall turned out to be completely deserted, I stepped out, and tiptoed my way down the hall.

Because this is a totally good idea with no flaws at all. I mean, it's not like the last time I crept into Scott's room in the dead of night ended in the destruction of his bedroom or anything.

He's already awake. I can tell that from his thoughts. What harm could there possibly be in talking to him now? He probably needs someone to talk to. Oh, he won't admit it, not in a million years or on pain of death because he's Scott-I-Must-Be-Stoic-And-Independent-At-All-Times-freaking-_Summers,_ but he probably does. And he does talk to me. Sometimes. When he's feeling particularly vulnerable or just in a sharing mood.

Which. Is. _Never._

He's got feelings. I know he does. I've seen them. I've seen him panic and I've seen him in tears and I've seen him in pain and I've seen him happy and euphoric and I've seen him angry. But lately…he hasn't really talked to me much. I'd almost think he was avoiding me. Like he hasn't really known what to say to me since our relationship started having slightly more romantic overtones.

I don't know.

I don't know why I'm surprised to see him react like this. Feelings? Relationships? Sentiment? _Romance?_ Any one of those things would be a one-way ticket to a blue screen of death for Scott. For a tall, handsome, intelligent and athletic young man, he's surprisingly useless on a lot of fronts one would think him most capable.

I didn't knock on Scott's door, or announce my presence at all, rather just slipped inside. The bedroom was completely deserted, just as I expected it to be. I casually strode out onto the balcony, before twisting around and looking up at the roof.

And sure enough, there he was.

"I thought I'd find you here," I called up to him as I immediately scaled the wall in order to sit with him. On the roof. Because apparently that's where he goes when he wants to get away from it all, from life, from everyone and everything. I've found him up here enough times to notice the pattern.

Scott did not reply, even as I pulled myself up and settled down next him.

Teenagers hanging out on the roof in the dead of night. That's…sort of cliché, isn't it? We could be watching the stars. If there were any. A mix of light pollution and clouds would be at fault for that, surely. I glanced at Scott, who seemed completely lost in thought, unaware of the outside world. I couldn't say what. I was making a point to myself by trying my best to stay well out of his head despite being so close to him. Just to prove to myself that I still can exercise some semblance of control. Maybe. Just to make myself feel better about the whole ordeal that was earlier today.

I nearly died today.

No getting around that. I could've died. If the great big lumbering robot of death and doom had been a little stealthier in its initial attack, we would not have gotten out alive. And if Scott had panicked like the rest of us and immediately taken the shot, the street probably would've been destroyed and anyone caught up in the blast would have been ripped to pieces. Something I didn't even think about at the time. I'm impressed it actually did occur to him, in the midst of all that. Though I don't understand why I'm surprised. Of course it occurred to him. Everything occurs to him.

Why am I still thinking about this?

Why am I even here?

"So."

He turned to face me, arching an eyebrow. "So?"

"What did Professor Xavier want?"

"What?"

"You know, when he made a point of asking you to stay behind so the two of you could discuss something very clearly important."

Almost immediately, he looked down. "Oh, that. It was nothing. Forget about it."

I grimaced. That never means anything good. "Something about your powers?"

"No."

I paused, thinking about it now. What could Professor Xavier possibly want to talk about with Scott? That had to be private?

"Something about your dad?"

"No."

"About…us?"

Is 'us' even a thing worth noting? We kissed exactly once. We're still not really in a relationship. Despite how much I kinda sort of maybe desperately want to be. It's suddenly occurred to me that I have no idea what I'm doing or even how to actually _be_ in a relationship. I don't think Scott knows, either. I think, for the most part, we're two awkward young people who don't know how to be together.

What even are we anymore? We're not dating. We're not just friends. We're not really anything.

Scott remained completely nonchalant and unfazed by my question, implying that he's either comfortable with what we are – _whatever_ we are – or he just doesn't even want to consider it for even a second. Probably the latter.

_"No."_

"About the _fight?"_

"Oh for the love of- _no,_ Jean."

"Then what?"

"It's nothing important."

"Don't make me ransack your mind, Scott Summers."

He groaned loudly and lay back on the tiles. "He just…he said that he thought I did the right thing. That's all."

"Which he had to tell you. In private. Non-telepathically. After kicking everyone else out."

"It's almost like, strangely enough, he's actually aware that some people don't like having someone else rummaging around in their brain. Shocker."

"There's more. There has to be."

"Not _important,_ Jean."

"Are you just evading the question because you're worried Warren's going to find out and hate on you?"

He groaned loudly. "Warren's entitled to his opinion. No one is forcing him to stay."

Of course you'd say that.

Ever the diplomatic one.

"Except his parents," I cut in.

He stopped. "What?"

"You didn't know?"

"I didn't think- …I should've figured that."

"Don't feel bad. He doesn't talk about it."

"It- it didn't even occur to me. My parents always…I guess I lucked out."

"There's a sentence I never thought I'd hear from you."

"Haha," he replied, his voice positively _dripping_ with sarcasm.

I laughed and playfully poked him in the ribs, beaming when he squirmed and moved slightly away from me, although not far enough to be out of my reach.

I like it when he realises that I'm just teasing him.

I like it when we can just be stupid together.

I forgot how much I missed this. Between the brewing political turmoil and the power fluctuations and the near-death experiences and the return of the sentinels and all the raging angst because hey, we're _teenagers,_ I almost forgot what it was like to be happy and stupid and just do whatever.

And I missed it. I missed it so much.

"What _are_ we, Jean?" he asked after what felt like an immensely long silence, but probably lasted all of three seconds.

My eyebrows rose in confusion at the question. "Mutants? Teenagers? A boy and a girl sitting on a roof because neither of us can sleep? Do you really need me to tell you?"

"That's not- …just forget it."

I blinked several times as I realised what he was asking. "Oh. _Oh._ You were asking about our relationship."

He glanced away, not wanting to look at me at all. "Whatever that even is."

"I, uh…I don't- I don't really know," I admitted sheepishly. "I…I like our friendship. It means a great deal to me and I don't, ah, I don't want to risk that crumbling because of…whatever this is."

He remained silent.

I bit my lip. That didn't come out the way I wanted it to at all.

"I mean, I don't want it to change," I amended, before realising that this didn't sound any better. "I _mean,_ I do want it to change, but not like _that,_ and…this still isn't sounding any better."

What do I say? I think I've been crushing on you for the past seven or eight months? I like the dynamic of the relationship we have now and I'm worried entering into a real relationship will lose that? Like, I want us to be together and move forward with the whole romance thing but I don't want the fundamental dynamic of the way we interact to change. If that makes any sense. That…doesn't make _any _sense. How can I explain how I feel to him when I can't even begin to understand it myself? Thoughts and feelings are weird, they're vague and unexplainable and putting them into words is harder than anyone would have you believe.

Just speak your mind.

Yeah. How in hell do I even begin to _do_ that?

"It- …it's not like we can just ignore everything that's happened," I added quickly, growing increasingly uncomfortable when he said absolutely nothing. "It's like, I don't know. I…I want to. I mean, I'd _like_ to. If that's what you want."

Scott continued to say nothing and maybe this was causing me to have a small anxiety attack because he's not a terribly expressive human being so when he doesn't say anything I really don't know what's going on or how he's reacting and I think I'm starting to panic, I think I might be panicking – is it obvious that I'm panicking?

Breathe. Breathe and calm down and breathe.

He likes me. I know he likes me. That whole 'flirting and kissing' thing would never have happened at all if he didn't. There's literally no reason to panic. At all.

And yet, here I am. Doing exactly that. While he stays totally silent.

Say something, Scott.

For the love of God and all that's holy, say something. Say _anything._

Preferably _before _my inability to rein in my own panic causes me to lose control and telekinetically make my heart explode out of my chest or…something.

"…and you're not saying anything. Scott please say something for the _love_ of God and all that's holy you _have_ to say something. Scott? _Scott?"_

"Is that what _you_ want?" he asked, so quietly I almost didn't hear him.

I blinked in surprise.

"I-" I began, only to cut off and stare off aimlessly into the distance. "Of course. Of course that's what I want. I literally _just told you_ that's what I want. _You're _the one being weird and evasive about it."

He, of course, said absolutely nothing in reply.

And who here is at all surprised?

"Look, Scott, if you don't want to, I'm fine with that. I just want to know where we stand. I want to be totally clear."

"No," he said, just a little too sharply. "It's not- it's not _like_ that, Jean. I'm just…"

He trailed off into silence, not bothering to say anything more.

"Just…?" I prompted.

"It's weird. _I'm_ weird. I could-"

"Scott Summers, if you try to pull the whole _'my powers are dangerous and I'm trying to protect you' _bullshit, I will throw you off the goddamn _roof."_

He laughed. Actually laughed. Genuine laughter. "Duly noted."

"So…"

"So?"

"So, boyfriend?" I asked a little nervously, my voice shooting up an octave. "Boyfriend, girlfriend, in a relationship, dating, going on dates, because romance?"

He immediately began to fidget uncomfortably. "Uh…I, um, I'm not-"

"Oh my god, Scott. Say yes. Agree to be my boyfriend already. This is killing me."

"Yes! _Yes,_ fine. Whatever. Just don't- don't _say_ it like that."

"Okay. Good. Thank you."

"Right."

"Okay."

_"O_kay."

We fell into a silence that was probably the most awkward thing in the history of the world but to be completely honest I wasn't paying that much attention. Both of us stared obstinately in different directions, refusing to look at each other. It's amazing how we can be friends for like, half our lives and be really close and then kiss and eventually have this conversation and decide to be in a relationship and it's _still_ painfully awkward afterwards. Like, how does that even work?

Is it supposed to be like this?

Or are we both just doing this all wrong?

"He asked me to lead," Scott piped up suddenly.

I turned to face him, eyes wide and incredulous. "What?"

Scott didn't look at me. "The professor. He…asked me to lead."

"Lead what?"

"Us. The group. The X-Men. Whatever."

I blinked several times as I considered the implications of what he was telling me. Such as Professor Xavier, despite being so obviously concerned for our safety and general welfare, probably expects further attacks to happen. Such as, I'm going to have to get into shape and generally work a hell of a lot harder at my combat skills if I want to stand a real chance of survival. If I want to continue living the life I do, I need control. I need to focus. I need to buckle down and sort my powers out before they overwhelm me.

"You mean like, permanently take command?"

"I guess so."

"Because of what happened with the sentinel?"

"I'm pretty sure that's why, yeah."

"That's…uh, that- that's cool, I guess. Wow. Warren will be royally pissed off."

"Mm."

"You…don't seem particularly happy about this."

He looked away. "I- …it's just sort of sudden. How do I even know I can do this?"

"No one else could've taken charge like that and done what you did," I pointed out. "You were the only one who didn't immediately panic. Professor Xavier probably sees value in that. He wouldn't ask you to do it if he didn't think you were perfectly capable."

"Isn't it just one more way everything depends on me and whether or not I manage to avoid screwing up?"

"Right! Precisely. And you've got _loads_ of practice on not screwing up."

"…you're not helping, Jean."

"The rest of us only have to worry about screwing up when we're using our powers. You're using your powers _all the time._ You're the best at keeping things in check. Admit it."

"You're really not helping. What if I _do_ screw it up?"

"Then you screw up. And everyone is reminded that you are a _human being,_ who is allowed to make mistakes," I told him flatly. "Failure is a natural part of life. The sooner you accept that the happier you will be."

"Wow. Thanks. That didn't help my anxiety about this at all."

"You have anxiety about everything. Stop it."

A small smile pulled at the corners of his lips. "Right, sorry. I'll get right on that."

I leaned against him, resting my head on his shoulder, and sighed. "You'll be fine."

"Yeah? You think?"

"Yeah. I think you'll be great. A day will come where no one on this good green earth will dare cross Cyclops, the fearless leader of the X-Men."

He groaned loudly. "Please don't let Bobby's codenames catch on, Jean."

"It's your fault. You used them in a combat situation. Now you're stuck with it, _Cyke."_

"Fine, Marvel Girl."

There was a brief pause.

_"Marvel Girl,"_ I repeated quietly. "I really need to change that to something better, don't I?"

He smiled. "Probably."


	21. Chapter Twenty One

I had never felt as intimidated by something as simple and dull and ordinary as a door so much in my life. I stood in the hall, rooted the spot, staring intently at the wood, trying and failing to calm my speeding heart. I knew what it meant. Professor Xavier never explicitly summons me to his study via telepathy unless he's gravely concerned for my wellbeing, and there's only one real reason why he would feel that way. I knew what he wanted. What he planned to do. I knew what would happen the instant I dared to go inside. I knew I would not be the same once I walked out again. I'll be different. Weaker.

I don't want to be weaker. I want to be strong. I want to be powerful. I want to be a force to be reckoned with, the force I know I have the potential to be. But as each day passes, the fluctuations get worse. They become more powerful, the time between them grows shorter and I lose a little more control. It's gnawing at the back of my mind, waiting for something to happen. I don't know what. I dread finding out.

I don't want to go inside. I don't want to have another piece of myself torn from my being and locked away in some dark corner of my mind only Professor Xavier knows how to get to. But I know that if I don't go inside, if I run away and hide, then it will only grow. It'll get worse. And one day, it could get someone killed. All of the people closest to me, all the people I care about, I could kill them. I could kill them all.

Is this how Scott feels every time he opens his eyes?

No time to consider it. Professor Xavier is expecting me, and I'd bet a significant amount of money that he's entirely aware that I've been standing here fidgeting for the last fifteen minutes.

I sighed quietly, and pushed the door open, entering the study and in doing so embracing my impending doom.

"Jean," Professor Xavier called my name calmly, gesturing vaguely at the chair directly in front of him. "Sit."

Slowly, uncertainly, I did as I was told, settling into the expensive leather armchair which was, like just about everything in the entire estate, probably some form of priceless antique that by no means should have rowdy teenagers anywhere near it. The leather squeaked uncomfortably under my weight. I sat very still, wanting to make as little noise as possible. Wanting to pretend that I didn't exist.

"These fluctuations," he began, sounding grave. "They've been increasing in power and frequency. Things have become precarious."

I kept my head down. "I- …I can handle it."

He smiled slightly. "You forget I've been reading minds far longer than you have, Jean."

There was nothing but silence. We both sat there, as still as possible, waiting for the other to speak. Undoubtedly he would speak first. I had nothing to say. All I wanted to do was lie about everything, and he knew me well enough to know without fail when I lied. To hell with telepathy, although I'm sure it helped a _great_ deal.

"This has gone on for too long," he told me quietly. "At first I believed it was minor, and something you could learn to control. You've made great progress lately, but I'm afraid it's grown beyond that now."

There was a pause.

I said nothing.

He ploughed on.

"I know you're frightened," he murmured, placing his hand on my knee in an effort to reassure me. "That's understandable. You've been through this too many times. I'm in loathe to resort to this again, but it must be done, for your own safety and well-being. Do you understand?"

Slowly, I nodded. "Okay."

He leaned forwards, clasping my hands in his. For a moment, I watched him, not sure what to expect. I remember doing this before. I remember it happening. I don't remember what the process actually entails. I don't know if it's just a two second rummage around in my brain to flick a switch or if it's more complicated than that. I could feel him flitting around on the edges of my psyche, tugging at me, pulling into something unknown.

Gradually, I leaned back in the chair, and closed my eyes, unable to keep them open anymore.

When I opened them again, it was bright.

Too bright.

I stepped back and raised my arm in order to shield my eyes from the orange glare, and the heat that pressed in around me, almost suffocating. All around me there was the roar of a blazing fire that raged.

Slowly my eyes adjusted and I whirled around, trying to work out where I was. This…doesn't seem like the astral plain. This seems like…I know this place. I should know it.

My eyes widened as I realised. I knew exactly where I was. This is the mansion. The parlour, specifically. I could hear the trickle of water behind me as it flowed down the stairs, covering the floor by about an inch. And despite the raging orange tongues of flame that threaten to engulf everything outside, everything here seems completely untouched. Unaffected by the storm pressing in from every direction. The windows held the fire at bay as easily as they would a light breeze.

I stared absently ahead, wondering what exactly I was supposed to do. Or even why I was here. I suppose a tap broke and there's a leak somewhere. I should check it before the flooding gets worse. Then I can use the excess water to put out the fire. Ugh. Where's Bobby when you need him?

"It's an illusion, Jean," Professor Xavier's voice called to me suddenly, making me jump violently in surprise and whirl around to see him walking calmly towards me, hand outstretched. "A manifestation of your mind, nothing more. It cannot hurt you. Indeed, it bends to your thoughts and emotions."

I blinked several times, taking in his tall, lean frame. I didn't realise just how tall he was. I suppose being confined to a wheelchair for years and years has that sort of effect.

"How are you walking?" I asked before I could stop myself.

He smiled slightly. "Manifestations, Jean. Nothing is truly here. All of this, everything you see, you created."

"Even you?"

"No. I am an alien presence here," he murmured. "A representation of my mind's presence within your own."

I turned around in circles, over and over again, taking in everything around me. The mansion interior, exactly like the real thing, the water that spilled out from nowhere, never rising and never falling, and the fire, the unquenchable, untameable storm waiting to tear it all down.

"Everything about this place, everything here, Jean, is you," Professor Xavier said quietly. "Everything here is a manifestation of some part of your being."

"I've never been here before," I managed in a strangled voice. "I've never seen this place."

"You don't _remember_ being here before," he corrected. "There is a difference."

"You're saying I have?"

He turned away from me, suddenly morose and a little nostalgic, before beginning to walk away and gesturing for me to follow, which I did, immediately.

"It's important that you understand," he said as he made his way out of the parlour and across the main hall at a brisk pace, his expensive shoes splashing in the water. "Venturing into the astral plain can be incredibly dangerous. If you cannot find your way back, it's nearly impossible to return to the waking world."

_"Nearly _impossible?" I repeated curiously.

"Lost souls can be guided back to their worldly forms by another, sufficiently skilled telepath," he told me, "It takes great effort and skill to do so, however. As it happens, that is what transpired when I brought you out of your catatonic state following the death of your friend Annie Richardson."

I blinked several times as I took this all in. It was strange, how familiar and cordial he was being with this information, like he'd already told it to me a thousand times before.

Maybe he has.

I don't know. I don't remember.

"Quickly," Professor Xavier urged as he ushered me down a flight of stairs that I was pretty sure had popped out of nowhere because they didn't exist in the real mansion. "We must reach the vault. We cannot tarry."

"The _vault?"_

He didn't answer me.

Why do I get this really eerie, surreal feeling about all of this?

Possibly because my mind has apparently manifested itself as a flooded mansion that also happens to be on fire. I'm sure there's some symbolism in that. I couldn't begin to guess at what it means.

We came into a dark hallway, where everything swayed and creaked as though we were on a ship. Professor Xavier seemed totally unperturbed, keeping his balance entirely too well for someone who hasn't walked in probably decades.

He must do this a lot.

The idea is not comforting.

Finally, he stopped at a heavy metal door set into the thick stone wall. My eyes narrowed a little as he went to open it. That…certainly looks like a vault.

Why a vault?

Why are we down here?

How exactly is this whole sealing-powers-away-for-my-own-good thing supposed to work?

Professor Xavier looked at me warily, as if he were suddenly unsure about everything. Then, after an incredibly long pause, he let out a quiet sigh and tugged the door a little more, pulling it until it creaked open. I stood there, craning my neck to try and see what was inside. The professor called it a vault, which means it probably guards something valuable. All my favourite memories, perhaps? But why are we here, if we're supposed to be keeping my powers in control?

A thin shaft of light revealed a dirty stone floor, and what looked like a large, completely empty room.

Suddenly, I saw movement, and heard the sound of metal dragging across the floor. Confused, I stepped inside and gazed around in the murky blackness, trying to see what was actually in here.

And then;

"J-Jean?"

I turned to face the back of the empty stone chamber, squinting. Slowly, I started to make out a figure, slumped against the wall. Behind me, the door swung right open, allowing light to flood inside.

I screamed and jumped back in utter horror.

_"S-Scott?!"_ I had to stop myself from screaming his name.

Scott was slumped against the wall, held there by a tangled mass of rusty chains. He was covered in slashes and bruises. Almost every inch of him was marred in some way, either by scars or wounds or blisters or blood. Oh god, there was blood _everywhere._ All over his ruined clothes, caking half of his face, and matted into his hair. His eyes were squeezed tight shut, and he was quaking with fear and pain. Immediately, I started shaking violently. I'd never seen Scott this bad before. The sight of him made me sick. I could feel acid boil up in my throat, but I forced it back down.

This is sick.

This is _sick._

Who did this to him?

Who could _do_ this to him?

"Scott, Scott listen to me, it's going to be okay," I told him as I fumbled with the chains, trying and failing to break them. I don't understand. These look ancient. They're rusted all over, they should break easily. Instead, they refused to budge at all, and seemed utterly impossible to sever.

"Jean, I-"

_"Jean,"_ Professor Xavier interrupted smoothly. "Remember what I told you."

"He needs _help!"_ I basically screamed, tears welling up in my eyes as I continued to pull fruitlessly at the chains.

"It isn't Scott."

_"What?"_

_"Think,_ Jean. Everything here is a manifestation of some aspect of your consciousness. Do not fall victim to it. Maintain control."

"Jean don't!" Scott screamed, lashing out now and dragging my attention away from Professor Xavier. "D-don't. Don't leave me here. Please, _please."_

"Scott, I…"

He gripped my shirt and pulled me in close, too close.

He opened his eyes and I tried to pull back but his grip wouldn't loosen and-

And…and…they were white.

Solid, bone white.

He screamed and cracks appeared in his skin. Blindingly bright white light shone from the cracks they spread and rapidly grew, across him, splitting and widening and he's dying, he's _dying-_

"Scott?" I yelled his name desperately. _"Scott?!"_

Oh, god.

God, no.

There was a flash and he screamed and I…and I…

When the light faded, there was nothing. Nothing left.

He was gone.

And I felt like I'd just been stabbed in the chest.

And then there was fire. Shooting out towards me, burning everything in its path, bursting through the wall and leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. I screamed and scrambled back, away from the rusty chains that were all that was left of Scott. Tears poured down my cheeks and my breath hitched in my throat as fire exploded from everywhere. I scrambled to my feet and fled to the door, trying to escape the inferno, only to run straight into a solid stone wall.

What?

_What?_

No. No, no, _no._ This isn't happening. This can't be happening.

Where's the door gone?

_Where has it gone?_

"Professor!" I screamed desperately, throwing myself against the wall where the door used to be in an effort to escape. _"Professor!"_

There was no reply.

And suddenly I realised what the vault was, and I realised why Professor Xavier had brought me here.

Fire flowed along my skin, burning away the flesh and leaving me with nothing, burning me away until I'm nothing, I'm nothing, _I'm nothing-_

The storm raged around me, surrounded while I screamed, I just _screamed _and I'm _nothing_-

I clawed at the wall and I screamed and screeched and snarled and nothing about me was me anymore, suddenly it was something else, something horrible and unrecognisable.

Professor Xavier brought me here to trap a monster, to lock it away and keep it from ever seeing the light of day. To protect everyone. This, here, it's a prison, designed for a monster of horrible, indescribable power that it would wield indiscriminately.

And the monster is me.

I am _fire!_

And life incarnate!

Blood oozed from the walls, mixing with the water that trickled inside and fire raged and nothing mattered anymore because I'm nothing, I'm not even human anymore, I'm _nothing-_

I am power.

I am limitless.

I am _everything._

And I screamed.

_"Jean."_

My eyes snapped open I bolted upright, gasping desperately for air and never quite managing to get enough. My chest heaved and sweat poured off my face and for what seemed like an eternity I just sat there, struggling to reassert reality. Professor Xavier sat across from me, looking gravely concerned.

"Are you alright?"

"What…" I managed hoarsely between breaths. "What the _fuck_ was that?!"

Despite the clear aggression in my words, he seemed to relax back into his wheelchair, looking immensely relieved. I didn't care. I looked around me wildly, still unsure whether I was really experiencing reality or if this was some further illusion my mind has managed to conjure up for no reason.

"Where's Scott?" I demanded after what seemed like too long. "Oh my god, _Scott._ He just- he…"

"Is having a rather animated chess match with Warren," the professor finished for me nonchalantly.

I blinked several times.

W-what? I- …oh.

_Oh._

"That…wasn't Scott," I murmured finally.

"No."

"What _was _it? Why did it _look_ like Scott?"

"It looked like Scott because that was the form your subconscious gave it," he answered tiredly. "You have a strong emotional connection to your powers, so within your own mind, you gave them a physical form you also have a strong emotional connection with. As for what it was, a physical manifestation of your subconscious, just the same everything else."

"I- …it wasn't like that the other times."

He smiled sadly. "On the contrary Jean, what we did today was exactly the same process."

I just gaped at him.

_"That's_ how you put a mental block on somebody? Drag them into their own mind and imprison them?"

"Not necessarily. But this was a delicate task and we cannot afford mistakes. It is…easier, up close. And ultimately, the block is far less likely to break on accident this way."

"I don't remember doing that before."

"I was uncertain you were emotionally mature enough to process the ordeal properly before," he said dryly, glancing at the door, then back at me. "If you like, you don't have to remember today, either."

I folded my arms angrily. "You're asking? Aren't you going to just erase my memories anyway?"

"No. I believe you're old enough to make that choice for yourself."

When I thought about it, the answer became obvious. I should allow him to take my memories. I'll probably be happier without them. I've had a hard enough time getting over the sentinel, who knows what this experience could do to me. Not to mention, if I remember the pathway, how to get to the vault, then if I ever find myself there again I can find it and release what should probably never be released.

I should forget. Anything else puts people in danger.

"I want to remember," I said flatly. "I need to know."

_Idiot._

What are you doing?

Professor Xavier simply nodded, remaining utterly impassive. "In that case, we are finished here."

He turned to his desk and immediately began sorting out papers. That was obviously my cue to leave. And sleep for the next twelve years. Slowly, weakly, I stood up and headed for the door. My hand paused over the knob, however, and I twisted around and glanced back at the professor.

"Professor?"

"Yes Jean?"

"You're not seriously going to get Scott to lead us, are you?"

He didn't look up from what he was doing. "You doubt Mr Summers' ability?"

"What? No. I just- he's…we're not actually…"

He didn't say anything as I stumbled over my words, waiting patiently for me to sort out what I actually wanted to say. I don't know what I actually wanted to say. He's scared. Don't make him do this. We're not superheroes. We shouldn't be forced into this. _He _shouldn't be forced into this.

"He's terrified," I managed finally. "He's sixteen. We've been in exactly one real fight."

"During which he proved himself quite capable, I would say."

"It's just making more things for him to be anxious about," I insisted. "He's inches away from a severe panic attack."

"Miss Grey. I have the utmost belief that Scott will prove himself to be an effective and resourceful leader," Professor Xavier told me. "He has great potential."

_Miss Grey._

He hasn't called me _Miss Grey _since I was twelve.

"He lives in constant fear of his unstoppable eye-lasers eventually killing somebody," I pointed out.

"His unstoppable eye-lasers, as you so eloquently put it, are relatively simple to regulate. No one has anything to fear from Scott."

"And what about Scott himself?" I asked. "You're not seriously considering putting the boy with crippling anxiety and depression in charge?"

"I understand your concern, Jean. But given enough time, all of you will inevitably face further animosity. You need to be able to work as a team, and someone needs to lead. Scott handled himself competently despite the chaos of the situation with the sentinel and is the clear choice for the role. Given the correct training and experience, he can become truly formidable one day."

Scott Summers is _already_ a mutant of formidable power, and very obviously still struggles even though he's been trying desperately to forget about the past and move on with his life. I'm not sure how much fuel I want to add to that fire.

But I was fighting a losing battle here. Anyone could see that. Professor Xavier remained resolute in his decision, and nothing I said was going to change that. I was hoping, maybe, I could change the professor's mind. Maybe I could get Scott out of it. I don't know. I don't want him to be at the fore. I don't want him to become a target. I want him to be safe, or as safe as a mutant can be in this day and age.

I know what the professor is saying. I know the great potential he sees. I've seen it too. I've no doubt of that. I just…I don't want him in the line of fire. I lost him once today, whether it was real or not. I can't go through that again. Never again.

Maybe I'm being selfish.

I sighed and nodded, resigned.

"Thank you, Professor," I murmured after a silence.

Finally, he looked up at me, a small smile tugging on the corners of his lips. "You are welcome."


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

"It can't have escaped your attention, Charles," a voice unlike anything I'd been expecting called as I descended the stairs, yawning and stretching and generally too tired to really think or properly engage with reality.

Almost immediately, I stopped dead in my tracks. I hadn't been expecting visitors. Professor Xavier usually has the courtesy to tell us when he's expecting someone. It's better for everyone that way, especially if the visitor in question isn't a mutant. Normal people always get weirded out when mutants actively use their powers anywhere near them. If we know ahead of time, Warren knows to wear his harness, Hank doesn't scale the walls, Bobby occasionally remembers not to create random and impromptu ice lakes in the hall, I don't levitate and Scott barricades himself in his room and doesn't come out.

This didn't sound like any old regular human, though.

"It hasn't," the soft English accent of Professor Xavier cut across the first speaker, just as I finally managed to force myself to move again.

"And yet you continue to cling to neutrality when you know it will inevitably destroy you and everything you've built."

I came to the bottom of the stairs to find the professor speaking with a tall, lean, man who looked so much less terrifying than he ought to. And I stopped there, not really wanting to listen in on Professor Xavier's private conversation but unable to help myself. If he really wanted this to be private, they'd at least go into his study. Talking in the main hall is probably not the best way to avoid eavesdroppers.

Perhaps that was the intent. I just couldn't tell _whose_ intent it was.

The professor sighed loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "This is not why I asked you here, Erik."

Erik seemed unconcerned, and ploughed on. "They will move to attack us, Charles. _All_ of us. From what I understand, you have already been made a target."

Charles Xavier's expression almost immediately hardened until it was completely unreadable. "Regardless of what you understand, that is not what happened. No one has been made any sort of target. Despite what you believe, we are _not_ at war with humanity."

"No? Were the children in your care attacked by a sentinel or not?"

_"Erik…"_

"How much longer will you insist on defending people who are already planning your demise?"

I…shouldn't be here.

Surely Professor Xavier has noticed me standing here by now. Or maybe he's so focused on arguing he hasn't noticed. I don't know. They're not exactly being quiet and discreet.

"In any case," Erik continued dryly, "I'd advise you to be more careful, old friend. For Raven's sake."

Professor Xavier's jaw tightened at the words.

"Thank you for your concern, Erik," he said in a flat tone that was possibly the closest I'd ever seen him get to actual sarcasm.

Erik Lehnsherr didn't appear to notice. Or maybe he did and simply didn't care. It was impossible to tell. Automatically, I started reaching out telepathically, only to find myself confronted by a wall. My first instinct was to push, to hammer against his defences until he yielded, only to remember that I had to make a concentrated effort just to reach out in the first place.

Right. Mental blocks. The vault. Locked away powers, for my own safety. I wasn't thinking. Mental defences like that usually mean nothing to me.

Maybe that's part of the reason why my powers had to be curbed.

Dejected and realising just how much power had been sealed away, I pulled back, settling back in my own mind and instead opting to watch the intruder closely, growing increasingly paranoid and suspicious.

He's up to something.

He is _always_ up to something. The man is slippery, and can't resist a diabolical world domination plan. Even if he's _not_ up to something dastardly and evil just yet, he _will_ be.

People like him never change.

"We are stronger united," he insisted. "We have a common enemy. They vastly outnumber us, but if we were to stand _together-"_

"To achieve what end?" Professor Xavier cut across him angrily. "Erik, you are talking about committing _genocide!"_

"We're at _war,_ Charles. All I am doing is trying to ensure our survival."

"A war of your own making!" he cried. "All you've done is fan the flames and given people yet more reasons to fear mutants."

"They struck at us first."

"And if you hadn't tried to _nuke_ them in Cuba and used the sentinels to attack the White House, you wouldn't be trading blows with them now," he pointed out harshly. "How much longer do you intend to do this, Erik? How many more innocent people will be caught in the crossfire?"

I'd never heard Professor Xavier talk like that before. He was usually so refined and reserved, carefully thinking through every word even when he was angry. I'd never seen him even come close to losing it like this. I never thought he was even capable of losing his perfectly maintained composure. I didn't know he could get so angry that his words failed him.

I'm supposed to know this man.

He's mentored me since I was eleven. He took me in and saved me from my own powers. My father has known him for years and only ever speaks highly of him. Charles Xavier is a good man. The best man I've ever known. Soft-spoken and genuine and trustworthy, always working towards peace and a better future for everyone. I've never had any reason to doubt him.

And I'm starting to realise that I don't know him at all.

"He's been here all morning," Scott murmured, suddenly behind me.

I jumped in surprise and twisted around to face him, arching an eyebrow in slight annoyance. I hate it when he does that. I don't even know how he does that, but it irks me when he does. He doesn't look like a particularly stealthy person, but then he goes and just appears right next to you and you have no idea how or when he got there. We've been here together for almost a year and I'm starting to wonder if there's a single combat skill that Scott doesn't excel at.

"They've been having the same argument for two and a half hours," he continued quietly.

"That's Erik Lehnsherr. That's _Magneto,"_ I whispered, gesturing at the tall, imposing man who happened to love fighting with humanity and people in wheelchairs. Or one specific person in one specific wheelchair.

Almost the instant the words were out of my mouth, both Professor Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr seemed to realise that maybe the hall wasn't the best place to have an argument and so quickly made their way of the room.

Scott seemed totally unfazed, simply stared at Erik's retreating back. "So it is."

"Why is he here?"

"From what I can tell, the professor invited him here," he replied monotonously, clearly not happy with any aspect of the situation. "Like he's supposed to have more insight into why people are making sentinels and setting them loose on the general public."

"I suppose they are old friends, despite their differences," I said, trying to at the very least _appear_ diplomatic.

"He's a terrorist," Scott argued. "He's killed _hundreds_ of people and we can't trust him. Who's to say he won't turn around and attack the Institute?"

"Magneto doesn't attack fellow _homo sapiens superior_. Not his M.O," I pointed out quietly.

But there's no doubt he'll eventually attack _someone,_ and we – the budding super-heroic team of incompetent teenagers that we are – will inevitably get dragged into it as we try desperately to stop him.

Heroes and villains. That's what we are. What we all are. Perhaps all we ever were.

"His fellow _what?"_

"Uh, mutants. That's his scientific name for mutants. It sounds kind of pompous, if you ask me."

_"Right."_

"Look. Professor Xavier is trusting, but he's not an _idiot,"_ I reminded him. "He's probably telepathically scanned the entire area several times. In any case, Magneto's highly experienced and dangerously powerful. If we attacked him, I'm not sure any of us would walk away alive."

"I don't know. _You_ might."

I smiled crookedly and sighed. "Yeah, Scott, I'm depowered right now. I won't be a lot of help."

He seemed confused by that, if anything. "Depowered? What does that mean?"

"It means that I have to concentrate really hard just to levitate a book across the room," I said. "Let alone throw a sentinel across the street."

"Is that…part of the fluctuations?"

I looked away. "Yes and no. Professor Xavier has this…thing…that he does when my abilities start growing out of control."

"A thing. Right. Very descriptive."

"It's a telepathic thing. Involves entering minds and instating mental blocks that stop me from accessing most of my actual power. All very complicated."

I'm going to leave it there and not elaborate because he so totally does not need to hear about anything that happened. And I don't want to talk about it. I mean, I _think_ I want to talk about it, and I _think_ that the experience is gnawing at my brain to the point it's preventing me from sleeping, but really, I don't. I don't need to mention it, I don't need to get into the specifics and I don't want to think about it ever again.

Which is all blatant lies, of course.

And I really wish I'd just let Professor Xavier erase the memory. But at the same time, I am never letting the memory go. I need to know what it was like. I owe it to myself.

Well. I say _erase._ Truthfully, you can't just wipe someone's memories from their mind. You sort of just…forcibly repress them, I suppose. That's what mental blocks are typically used for, after all. Stopping people from reaching memories they repressed. I've learned so much about telepathy lately. None of it makes me feel any better about what happened. About the burning, flooded mansion and what happened in the vault.

Burning, screaming, fire on flesh, and the _power,_ the intense, indescribable feeling of that much _power_ and I'm nothing, I'm _nothing-_

I don't want to talk about it.

I desperately want to talk about it.

Scott watched me warily for a moment, clearly confused. Tentatively, I reached out once more, brushing gently against his mind in some effort to understand what was going on in his head beyond a mildly confused expression. Scott offered no resistance, obviously not expecting any kind of telepathic onslaught.

_She sounds distressed. Should I ask? Maybe she doesn't want to talk about it? Is she going to get pissed if I pry? How am I supposed to know?_

A small smile pulled at the corners of my lips. "Nothing gets past you, does it?"

He stared at me vacantly for a moment, unsure what I was referring to before realising. "Get out of my head, Jean."

I smiled slyly. "Why? I've been _everywhere else._ Why is your head off-limits?"

"Wha- …_Jean!"_

"Are you _embarrassed,_ Summers?"

His eyebrows rose slightly. "You're stalling."

"Stalling what?" I asked sweetly. "You never _said_ anything."

_"Jean," _he called my name exasperatedly, in no mood to be tolerable.

I sighed heavily and turned away, raking my hands through my hair in agitation. "I…don't know. Having someone rummage around in your brain, altering the essence of who you are as a person, it…it just…"

"It's terrifying," he finished for me, staring vacantly off into space. "To know someone can invade that part of you. You wake up, and you _know _you're different, but you don't remember anything ever changing. Someone else did that to you. Someone _else_ changed some integral part of you to suit _them,_ and you don't know which parts are really you and which parts aren't. You don't know who you are anymore."

For the longest time, I just stared at him vacantly, unsure what to say. There didn't seem to be anything I _could _say. I never understood Scott's fear of telepathy before. I never really knew why he was sensitive about having his thoughts read. I only ever had my experience, being the telepath. Being the perpetrator. I didn't see it from someone's perspective. I thought telepathy was a relatively passive ability, incapable of doing anything outright harmful, simply because of what I would do and what I'd been taught.

But there's a reason Professor Xavier repeatedly rammed it into my head to respect other people. To never use telepathy unless the situation called for it. I just didn't see it before.

"Scott," I called his name quietly. "I wouldn't do that to you. You know that, right?"

He seemed to snap out of a trance the instant I opened my mouth. He smiled slightly and wrapped an arm around me, pulling me closer to him before softly kissing my head.

"I know."


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

Her name was Ororo Munroe.

She was the first new student the Institute had seen in something like eighteen months, a fact that became painfully obvious when none of us really knew what to do about it. She'd barely walked in the door, dumped her ancient and ragged looking backpack on the floor and was now talking to Professor Xavier and all five us – Scott, Warren, Hank, Bobby and myself – were all sitting at the top of the stairs, leaning on or against the bannister, watching this new development curiously. We were trying to seem like we were lounging around, and didn't really care about the new arrival, but we were all watching her curiously, taking in everything about her.

And honestly, she looked like she'd just been pulled off the streets. Her jeans were torn, the heavy combat boots she wore where worn and scuffed, and her jacket looked like it had seen far better days. Her untamed mane of snow white hair – which stood out starkly from her black clothes and her dark skin – looked like it hadn't been properly brushed in who knows how long.

Edgily, I glanced at Scott, who was leaning against the wall, looking utterly impassive. He's probably the only one out of all five of us who seems almost genuinely uninterested in the situation. Meanwhile, Bobby could barely contain his excitement as he leaned as far as he could over the railing, craning his neck in an effort to get a better look at the new girl.

"Wicked," he murmured. "About time we got another girl."

"Careful there," Warren called. "She looks like she'll kick your ass for looking at her the wrong way."

"Haha," Bobby drawled sarcastically. "I wonder what her powers are."

"No doubt she'll be wondering the same about _us,"_ I sighed. "This is going to end in another one of those power displays on the lawn, isn't it?"

Scott visibly paled at my words, if that was even possible. I didn't bother to try to reassure him. I knew it was a lost cause. And there wasn't any real point in assuring him anyway – power displays on the lawn had happened, without fail, almost every single time someone new came to the Institute. Scott was a special case, mostly because he'd been so virulently asocial upon getting here. But all the other times? Power displays on the lawn. We all like to scope out each other's powers, and then retire to the nearest lounge and commiserate the loss of our once normal lives, and the fact that we have all been doomed to a life of powers and generally never fitting in with anyone ever again.

And this time? No exception.

It doesn't matter, anyway. It's not compulsory. It's just a sort of ritual thing that has just sort of ingrained itself as part of life here.

"Well, she won't be wondering about _me,"_ Warren said offhandedly, flexing his wings.

Bobby nodded. "Blatantly obvious wings are sort of blatantly obvious."

"Such powers of observation, Robert," Hank noted dryly. "It is astounding indeed."

"Whoa Hank, you too now? What is this, international _let's-all-snark-at-Bobby _day?"

No one bothered to reply to his comment because at that moment, Professor Xavier gestured straight at us, in an obvious effort to draw the girl's attention to her now fellow students. And, because we're all weird and vaguely introverted and none of us know how to socialise with new people anymore because we've all been cooped up in this mansion for at least a year, we all simultaneously recoiled and looked away, desperate not to make eye contact with the stranger in our midst.

It's sort of embarrassing, really. I used to know how to make friends. I used to know how to talk to people. I used to be that fresh, friendly face that everyone wants to talk to. I used to be the approachable one.

I glanced edgily from the four boys who were all suddenly very interested in their shoes, to the girl who was now making her way up the stairs to introduce herself to us, probably at Professor Xavier's behest.

Yeah. I'm still the most approachable one here.

_Be nice,_ I reminded myself over and over again. _She's new, and she's probably more scared than she lets on, so you have to be nice._

I'm Jean Grey. I'm the picture of perfection and niceness.

And…I just so happen to possess the ability to snap a person's spine with my mind.

So nice.

So sweet.

So friendly.

So approachable.

All those vitally important qualities I'm convinced my boyfriend distinctly lacks. That's what I give the team. That, and raw power of terrifying, epic proportions.

Not scary at all.

There are scarier people in the world than a seventeen year old mutant girl.

Why am I thinking about this?

I need to stop thinking about this.

In the time I wasted thinking about this, she had made it up the stairs, and was now looking over all of us with a curious expression plastered across her face.

Surely she noticed how no one seemed to want to look at her.

I hope she realises that it's just because we're all awkward and it has nothing to do with her.

She's not going to know that, Jean.

I sighed quietly. I'm going to have to explain this carefully and quietly later, aren't I?

Yes Jean.

Her eyes, a startling shade of bright, icy blue, widened as the first thing she noticed was – of course – Warren's wings. Warren, obviously realising he was being gawked at, immediately took the opportunity to flex his wings, careful to show just how powerful and well-muscled they were. I pulled a face of mild disgust at him, which he totally ignored. The new girl, apparently mesmerised by Warren's efforts to make an impact, didn't notice any of this exchange. Slowly, her eyes slid over the rest of the group.

"You're students here?" she asked in a low voice which retained traces of an accent I couldn't quite place.

Not a born and bred American, obviously.

It made me wonder where she could be from.

I smiled warmly at her and offered my hand. "Yeah, that's us. I'm Jean Grey. Nice to meet you."

Her lips twisted into a small smile for a split second and very slowly, she grasped my hand, quickly retreating once contact had been established. I didn't ask. She probably didn't want to talk about it, and I wasn't going to push it. She only just got here. If she wants to open, she'll do it of her own volition.

"Ororo Munroe," she replied with her own name, before glancing around, taking each of us in. "Where are the rest?"

"Rest of what?"

"The students."

Warren let out a brief shout of bitter laughter. "It's just what you see."

Her eyebrows rose. "There are only five of you?"

"Well, six of us as of today," Hank correctly quietly.

"Wow, _six,"_ Bobby whispered, mostly to himself, before glancing over at me. "Remember when it was just the two of us, Jean? This place is getting crowded."

"Oh yeah. Good times. You were so little. It was adorable," I said, getting nostalgic.

"I was never _little,"_ he argued.

"Yes you were. You still are," I shot back. "Teeny ickle Bobby Drake."

"Stop. Jean, stop that. Stop that _right now."_

"Baby Bobby."

"I _will_ freeze you where you stand."

"Try it, _Iceman,"_ I called mockingly, standing my ground.

For a moment, Bobby seemed to seriously consider coming good on his threat, but Scott reached out and clasped his shoulder before anyone could do anything.

"She's baiting you, Bobby," he said quietly. "Don't give her the satisfaction."

I looked away. "Summers, you are ruining my fun. _Again."_

"If you're going to pick fights, Jean, save it for the Danger Room," he told me, leaping straight into his _Cyclops, fearless leader of the X-Men_ mode without a second thought.

It'd be really annoying if I didn't find it a tiny little bit attractive.

Okay. A lot attractive.

I can't help myself! He goes all macho serious business and it is just so goddamn appealing when he does. And I- …am going to stop talking. Right now. Stop. No one needs to hear that. Ever.

Bobby folded his arms and huffed, looking accusingly at Scott now. "Can't you keep your girlfriend under control?"

He didn't react. "Evidently not. Duke it out in the Danger Room later if she's bothering you that much."

I beamed at the idea, while Bobby looked absolutely horrified.

"I can't do that," he insisted. "She'll _annihilate _me!"

Scott was having none of it. "Then stop complaining."

Man is he not in an overly tolerable mood today.

And she says it like it's some kind of big fucking surprise.

It was then I noticed Ororo standing there awkwardly and suddenly remembered that I was the only who'd bothered to actually introduce myself.

"Oh, right. That's Henry McCoy, the winged one is Warren Worthington the Third-"

"The _Third?"_ Ororo repeated, either unsure she'd heard correctly or not quite grasping the concept.

Warren pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed a little, exasperated. "Warren. My name is _Warren."_

"Why are you third?"

"Painful, pompous family tradition. It won't live to see another generation. That, I'll make _sure _of."

I sighed and opted to plough on with introducing everyone, since no one seemed to want to do it themselves. Honestly, sometimes I think I'm the only one here who is willing to deal with any small talk at all, ever.

"The idiot who's going to fall over the bannister is Robert Drake, and the one with the sunglasses over there is our beloved fearless leader, Scott Summers."

"But names are boring," Bobby chimed in. "What you want to know about are our _powers,_ right?"

He paused for a moment, waiting for some confirmation from Ororo, but she remained silent. It clearly wasn't meant as hostile; she seemed uncomfortable and shy more than anything. It hardly mattered anyway, since Bobby ploughed on with no encouragement.

"Hank's agile and fast and can climb stuff, Warren flies around, Jean does mind stuff, Scott shoots lasers and I make ice," he reeled off proudly, while frost spread out from his palms and quickly coated most of the bannister.

Ororo pulled back at the sudden appearance of the ice, looking a little shocked. She didn't seem to know what to say.

I sighed heavily. "Always looking for an excuse to show off, Bobby."

He grinned. "Always," he said, before turning back to Ororo. "But anyway, what's yours? Can you show us?"

This seemed to terrify her beyond all else.

"Mine is…not suitable for indoors," she managed in a strangled voice.

Scott laughed sourly. "Yeah, join the club."

"Yours is…lasers?" she asked quietly, still trying to make sure she'd retained all the information Bobby had gushed at her correctly.

"They're not _lasers,"_ Scott all but groaned. "It's more like a concussive force beam-"

"They're basically lasers," Warren interrupted smoothly. "He's just being anal. That's his other power."

"Haha," Scott deadpanned. "You're hilarious."

"So, what's your thing?" Bobby asked, taking no note of any of the rest of us.

Ororo fidgeted uncomfortably, before sighing quietly and closing her eyes. Suddenly, everything seemed to go a little darker as the sunlight that had been streaming in through the windows dimmed. For a while we all just stood there, glancing at the nearest windows, then at each other, and finally to Ororo, who stood perfectly still and focused, apparently concentrating so hard on what she was doing that she was basically dead to the world.

Then she opened her eyes, which had turned a solid, bone white.

I winced a little and turned away, not wanting to be reminded of any of the memories I associated with that.

Then, suddenly, without warning, thunder exploded and rolled overhead, so loud and sudden that we all jumped in surprise. A few seconds passed, and slowly, Ororo relaxed. As she did, the thunder faded away and the clouds dispersed, and the weather easily settled back into the bright, sunny day it had been before.

And we all gaped at her in surprise and shock.

Bobby was staring at her like he was in love.

"Holy. Freaking. _Shit,"_ he gushed, not even trying to restrain himself. "That is _so cool."_

"Weather control," Warren murmured. "That's…that's new. And you're right; totally not suitable for indoors."

"It's the goddamn coolest thing you've ever _seen,"_ Bobby interjected, still unable to get over his excitement. "And the best, easiest thing to come up with a codename for."

"Yeah?" Scott asked dryly. "What's your suggestion this time?"

"I'm so glad you asked, Cyke. It's Storm."

Ororo blinked several times. "I'm sorry?"

"Your codename. You need a codename," he insisted. "I'm thinking, Storm."

"Why do I need a codename?"

"Because we all have them. Gives Scott something to call us by without giving away our identities when we're out in public, fighting crime and wearing spandex and orders must be given," Bobby explained. "I'm Iceman. Hank's Beast, Warren is Angel, Jean's…are you still Marvel Girl, Jean?"

I gritted my teeth. "Yeah, I'm still Marvel Girl."

I've been trying to change it for something like a year and I can't think of a single idea that I like. It's getting ridiculous. Telekinesis Girl. Mind Blast. The Girl Wonder. The One Who Is So Powerful Most of Her Abilities Are Locked Away. I don't know. I don't like anything my brain comes up with. I don't like any of Bobby's suggestions, either.

I glanced at Warren's wings, and before long was almost lost in the mass of smooth white feathers. I always liked his wings. Always admired them. People find them disconcerting, but they are beautiful. Maybe I'll go for something bird themed for a codename. I always loved birds, and I can levitate myself, which is like flying.

Nightingale? Sparrowhawk? Lammergeyer?

None of those sound right.

This is becoming pointless.

I'm going to end up being Marvel Girl for the rest of my life, aren't I?

"Anyway, Jean's Marvel Girl, and Scott is Cyclops," Bobby's voice dragged me back into reality. "And for you, I've got Storm. Short and easy, sounds badass, and exactly what it says on the tin. Best codename ever."

Ororo didn't seem to know what to say to that. She opened her mouth to say something, but almost immediately slammed it shut, unsure of herself and deciding that silence was the better option. I couldn't really blame her, I guess. I sighed quietly and ran a hand through my hair, pulling it back out of my face and wincing a little as a few strands pulled loose. It's getting so long. Maybe I should cut it.

Later.

Think about this later.

"I should show you around!" I exclaimed suddenly, making for the stairs and gesturing wildly at Ororo to come with me.

She seemed relieved to have an excuse to get away from the boys, and immediately nodded, practically running after me.

To be fair to her, I probably would've done the exact same thing in her place. This is excruciatingly awkward already. I'm sure all of us want out.

So it falls to me to make that happen.

Lord knows, no one else is going to do anything.

"Where are you from, if you don't mind me asking?" I asked when we reached the bottom of the stairs.

She smiled. "I was born in Kenya. I moved to Cairo when I was five and lived there for many years."

I blinked several times. That sounds…like the most amazing upbringing I've ever heard. I bit back my awe though, trying to come off as politely interested and not like I wanted to hound her questions over what living and growing up in Africa was like.

"Oh yeah? When did you come to the States?"

"Four years ago."

"That is _so_ cool," I murmured before I could stop myself. "I- I mean, uh…I've just lived here all my life. I _want_ to travel, though. Just don't know when I'll have the time. Or the money. Or when I'll be able to convince my stupid boyfriend to come with me. I wouldn't want to go with anyone else, but the _second_ I mention it Scott just gets so weird about it. I don't suppose I can blame him. He's never been good with unfamiliar people and places."

"Scott?" Ororo asked curiously. "The one with glasses?"

"That would be an accurate description of Scott Summers, yes," I said, before gesturing towards the kitchen. "Kitchen is this way."

We walked around together for a while, me pointing and directing her to where all the important rooms were. Kitchen. First lounge. Parlour. The main dining hall. All the other rooms I keep losing track of because sweet Jesus this mansion is huge, and we only use a small part of it overall. And this one floor. Then there's the east wing, the west wing, the labyrinth of basement floors…

It gives me a headache just thinking about it.

"This house is enormous," she murmured, mostly to herself after a while. "Even for a house in this country."

"What are the houses like in Africa?"

"Smaller. Much smaller."

I glanced at her, considering everything she'd told me about herself. She hasn't lived here for that long. The more I think about it, the more surprised I am that she can speak English fluently.

"You…speak English incredibly well," I noted after a brief silence.

"My father was American," she informed me quietly, taking on a slightly melancholic tone now.

I nodded curtly and looked away. Curiosity nagged at me, but I resisted it. It was probably complicated and I didn't want to open any old wound when I barely knew the girl. Years of knowing Scott have taught me that sometimes – most of the time, really – prying is a really, _spectacularly _bad idea.

So instead I changed the subject.

"I…hope you like it here," I said finally. "It's weird at first, and I don't think the boys are going to know what to make of you for a while, but after it all settles down, once you work out your place in the team, it's actually really nice. Like a social misfit mutants united."

She looked at me oddly. "My place on the team?"

I bit my lip. "Ah, right. Yes. The X-Men. We're, uh, kind of a team. Of mutants. That's why we've got codenames and all of that. Mostly it's just for training sessions in the Danger Room, stuff like that, but not always."

"Not always?"

"There have been…fights," I began slowly, not quite sure how to phrase it. "Minor things, not worth talking about. But it's been in public, and since we don't want an angry mob showing up at the gates, keeping our real identities secret is sort of important. Look, the general gist of it is, if anything happens, do what Scott says."

"Because he's the leader."

"Because he's the only one who can look at a stressful situation like that without panicking and know the best course of action," I said. "But, yes. Because he's the leader."

She smiled slightly. "I will try to remember that."

"Don't stress," I assured her. "Nothing is going to happen. Our lives aren't that interesting."


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

It was a lie, of course.

That little fact of life became excruciatingly apparent the longer time dragged on. But Ororo seemed perfectly content to carve out a place for herself, in the mansion, and on the team. None of us really seemed to know what to make of her. Warren was having an especially hard time adjusting to her presence – something about flying around in the Danger Room when there's a girl summoning bolts of lightning and gale force winds right there made everything just slightly more difficult for him. And it's not like Ororo was all that used to fighting in close quarters with other people she doesn't want to hurt. It isn't like she's ever had to consider a more tactical approach. She's powerful enough that she can generally just charge blindly into the centre of the fray and usually get away clean.

And it irked Scott.

It irked Scott a whole lot more than he ever let show.

Here was the boy who strived to control everything, confronted with someone he can never possibly hope to control. I'm not sure he even knew what to do with himself around her. He was constantly on the verge of saying something, of trying to correct her or tell her that it was a better idea to look for a different angle. Always so close, and yet never actually doing anything. I think his silence was more because he wanted to avoid a fight than any other reason.

But mostly, I think the boys – all four of them – felt more than a little threatened by her. Hell, _I_ felt a little threatened by her, and I'm technically higher ranked on the power scale.

_Our lives aren't that interesting,_ said the telekinetic telepath, to the weather witch, while touring the grounds of a mansion-turned-school-for-mutants that belonged to a man who is in all likelihood the most accomplished telepath in the world, as she told her of a fight she once had with a giant robot specifically designed to hunt down people like them.

Yeah, Jean. Let's just see how long that lie holds up.

I groaned and shifted a little in the bed, too tired to even try opening my eyes. I pulled the covers back over my shoulder, trying to shield myself from the bitter cold of the morning. I tried to roll over only to come into contact with someone who wasn't me. A distinctly naked someone, against my distinctly naked self.

My eyes snapped open in surprise at finding someone else in my bed before realising that this _isn't _actually my bed. Nor is this my room.

I turned my head just enough to see Scott sprawled next to me, eyes closed, totally relaxed, sleeping soundly. I smiled a little. I so rarely get to see him without the glasses these days. I forgot how much I missed it. How much I missed being able to see his face. Gingerly, I brushed some of his hair out of his face, trying to remember his eyes. I liked them. They were nice. I think they might've been brown. Or maybe they were blue? I know they weren't green, because our eyes have never been the same colour. It's…strange, I guess, how quickly it took me to forget Scott's eye colour. I wonder if he knows. I wonder if it's worth asking him.

He's changed so much since then. Two years ago it was impossible for me to imagine Scott taking things like the Danger Room and sentinels and whatever else this world decides to throw at us in his stride. So much has happened and yet, somehow, it seems like nothing much has happened at all. It's hard to tell the truth anymore.

I should probably leave. Creep out the door, sneaking back into my own room and pretend this never happened. That is has never happened before and will continue to never happen. Out of sight, out of mind. No one needs to know. It sure as hell isn't anyone else's goddamn business.

It won't last. It _never_ lasts.

"Good morning starshine," I whispered, my lips tracing his neck. "The Earth says hello."

The reply was immediate, and entirely too coherent considering how early it was. "The Earth can suck it."

I pulled back in surprise. I thought he was asleep. Clearly, he wasn't, but he seemed so peaceful and was breathing so slow and evenly he may as well have been. He rolled over so his back was facing me.

"You twinkle above us; we twinkle below?" I continued, despite feeling a little unsure of myself.

He just groaned exhaustedly in reply, not bothering to actually say anything. My eyes narrowed as I gazed at his back, riddled with countless old, faded scars I still didn't know the origin of.

"How long have you been awake?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"No idea. A while, I think. What time is it?"

I glanced over him, at the clock on the bedside table. "Early," I answered.

"How early is _early?"_

I shrugged, not that he could see it. "Not stupidly early. Like, the sun is up, but I doubt anyone else is."

Because, let's face it, who in this mansion is going to miss a rare opportunity to sleep in? There doesn't appear to be any pressing emergency. It's just a normal Saturday. And we get so few normal Saturdays.

"Or you could just tell me the actual time."

"Seven-ish."

"Thank you."

It was surprisingly mundane, this part. I forgot how much I missed it. How much I missed all of these moments. It was a small glimpse, a brief insight into what my life could've been like, without the powers. Without the pressure of being a mutant in a world of people who fear mutants and their abilities. It was nice. Refreshing. Mundane things like this rarely ever happen to me anymore.

Normal life. Normal world. Normal Jean.

Scott reached out blindly for his glasses, only for his fist to hit the bedside table with an almost jarring amount for force. His glasses, which had been balancing precariously on the edge of the table, fell off their perch, clattering to the floor. I watched on in bemused silence as Scott cussed and leaned over the side of the bed, still blindly groping for his glasses. Very quickly, he lost his balance and half fell off the bed, barely managing to catch himself. I sniggered. I couldn't help it. It was just too funny to watch.

_"Shit,"_ he cussed again, under his breath. "Little help?"

I remained exactly where I was, having too much fun. "I'm afraid I'm indisposed at present. Better luck next time."

Almost the instant I said this, he slipped, falling into a heap on the floor and taking most of the covers with him. My snigger very quickly turned into a shout of laughter.

"He's beauty, he's grace, he's Miss United States."

"And you are _so_ not helping."

He continued to search blindly for his glasses, the panic in his face growing more and more evident as seconds ticked by without success. His movements grew frantic, and he started muttering under his breath as fear coloured his thoughts before he could think to do anything about it. Soon, I didn't find it quite as funny anymore.

It's been ages. Two years since the disaster that was his powers manifesting. Sometimes I think he's over his fear of them. Then I'm reminded that he's just very good at hiding it.

Just…not now.

And maybe it's that, most of all, which makes me feel so depressed.

"Where are…? Oh god, don't do this to me. Don't do this to me _now,"_ he whispered to himself, so quietly I almost didn't hear him.

He sat up, running his fingers through his hair, getting increasingly stressed but trying really hard not to show it.

"What if they're broken? Ugh, this can't be happening to me."

"It's not the end of the world," I said, trying to lift his mood a little. "You still have the visor."

He smiled crookedly. "Right. Trade in my sort of uncomfortable, casual eyewear for my even less comfortable, gimmicky, superhero eyewear that gives me headaches."

"I thought it was your powers that gave you headaches?"

"That's different. That's more like a pressure behind my eyes, and it goes away once I open them. The visor is more like…it presses in around my head. Feels like my brain is about to implode."

"Have you gone a single day in your life with a clear head?"

"I- …am not going to answer that. You're the one who can see, Jean. Give me a hand?"

I crawled over to the other side of the bed, glancing around for any sign of his glasses. Eventually, I spotted them underneath the bedside table. I glanced back at Scott, who was still being totally hopeless.

"Oh my god," I laughed, telekinetically picking up the glasses and forcing them into his hands. "Here."

He smiled as he put them on. "Thanks, Red."

I leaned over and lightly kissed him on the cheek. Almost immediately, Scott turned and kissed me back, soft and oh so gentle. His fingertips brushed the side of my face, tracing along my jawline. A small shiver went up my spine as he gently tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear.

"You're a mess," he murmured.

I stuck my tongue out at him. "Says you."

We were so close our noses were almost touching. And for a moment, all I wanted to do was drag him back onto the bed and do all manner of probably inappropriate things, to go to all those places I probably shouldn't ever go. Scott seemed to have the same idea. He pressed his lips against mine, hungrily, as my hand snaked around the back of his head, my finger entangling themselves in his hair as every fibre of my being urged me to go on, to have him right then and there.

And he would've let me, too, had his phone not decided to go off right at that very second.

Almost immediately, he pulled away from me, groping for his phone before bringing it up to his face so he could see who was calling him.

Someone with the world's worst timing, obviously.

"Who is it?" I asked as Scott stared vacantly at his phone, like ringing isn't a thing his phone is supposed to do.

"I- …it's Alex," he murmured, before pressing a button and bringing it to his ear. "A little early for the weekend, Alex. I only just woke up."

For a while, I just stared. It was all I could do. Surprise and shock kept me firmly in place.

Scott answered his phone.

He actually _answered_ his _phone._

Scott _never_ answers his phone. Ever. It just doesn't happen. I don't even know why he has one in the first place, that's how deeply ingrained his not-answering-of-phones behaviour is. It's a habit he formed after spending too much time being too anxious and depressed to talk to other people. A habit that I used to think would never go away. Now it apparently has, and I'm so surprised and shocked I don't know what to do with myself.

He's changed so much. Improved so much faster than I ever thought he was capable.

Still a dick sometimes. Still regularly turns into a brick wall of emotionlessness. Still gets anal about everything. Still obsesses over every single tiny, insignificant detail that never would've occurred to anyone else, ever. But improved, nonetheless.

Scott pulled back, away from me, looking a little taken aback by whatever Alex was telling him. "Whoa, hey. Slow down. What?"

I reached over to him, my fingertips gently tracing his collarbone. He waved me off, pulling that irritatingly familiar, slightly impatient look of _not now Jean_ that heralded the end of any sort of action I was hoping to get this morning.

I sighed quietly. Early morning canoodling time officially over, then.

Dammit.

Scott didn't seem at all bothered by my loud sighs and vigorous pouting as I rolled around on the bed, wishing he hadn't gone all _Cyclops, fearless leader of the X-Men_ on me. More pressing issues to think about, I suppose.

_"What?"_

No, this isn't Cyclops. This is just Scott Summers, suddenly remembering that he's an older brother. I let out one more frustrated sigh before tumbling off the bed myself and stumbling over to the wardrobe.

Great freaking _timing,_ Alexander Summers.

"Alex, calm down," Scott said quietly into his phone, looking exhausted and pale and dejected all of a sudden. "It's okay. No one is going to force you into anything you don't want to do."

I wanted a morning. Just one normal morning in which nothing and no one tries to kill us for whatever reason. Just a nice Saturday morning in which I can be a normal human being with a normal human being for a boyfriend and who do normal human things together that normal human beings do.

Why in _hell_ is that so goddamn difficult to accomplish?

"That's _not_ what I said," Scott continued, getting slightly heated now.

Oh, great. An argument with his brother. That's precisely what we need right now. Said exactly no one, ever.

"I'm not _asking_ you to- …are you even listening to me? Alex. Don't panic. It's not the end of the world."

I wrenched open Scott's wardrobe and quickly scanned the contents for something I could quickly throw on and so escape back to my room with some measure of modesty. It's early, and it's unlikely anyone will catch me, but in this house you can never be too careful.

I pulled out one of Scott's millions of long sleeved, button-up shirts. Too big for me. Perfect. I'll wear it as a very short dress that will in no way imply that I've been up to no good in a boy's bedroom.

Haha. What an innocent way to put it. I'm just fortunate Professor Xavier seems hell bent on remaining as ignorant as possible about the entire situation.

Scott paid no attention to me while I dressed, entirely focused on whatever he was disagreeing with Alex over.

_"Yeah,_ Alex, I think I would know."

I cast one last, slightly forlorn look at my boyfriend, who continued to be unaware of my actions, or my existence in general.

Is it so selfish of me to want to be the only thing he ever thinks about?

Probably.

That's not going to stop me, though.

Scott did not look up. I let out an exasperated sigh and quickly made my exit, disappearing into the hallway and praying to God no one else was up yet. I don't know why I worry. It's early. On a Saturday. In a house full of teenagers who are constantly looking forward to the next possible opportunity for a sleep-in, since it so rarely ever happens. I'm safe. I am so, totally, absolutely, one hundred percent safe from any kind of scrutiny.

"So…does the professor know you and Scott are sleeping together?"

I jumped violently in surprise and whirled around to find Bobby casually leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyebrow arched in polite curiosity. I stood there, wearing Scott's shirt and not much else, shifting from side to side, fidgeting anxiously.

"Bobby!" I called his name in the sweetest, politest tone I could manage. "I, uh…I didn't see you there."

His expression did not change. "Yeah. No kidding. Next time, do yourself a favour and use the window."

Almost two years of almost, sort of, not quite super-heroics have really changed Bobby. He doesn't use his powers outside of combat anymore. He looks tired all the time. He doesn't joke as much. There's a darkness in his expression that wasn't there before.

It's painful to watch sometimes.

He used to joke. He used to be playful. He used to be a normal kid.

I sighed quietly. We _all_ used to be normal kids. Mutants aren't born with powers. Born with an active x-gene, sure. But the actual powers don't actually kick in until puberty, or thereabouts. Good thing, too. I doubt my parents would have been thrilled to deal with telekinetic toddler tantrums. I'm told I threw pretty wild ones regardless. Powers would've made that worse. A million times worse.

"Look, Jean," Bobby called to me quietly. "I'm not trying to shit all over what makes you happy…"

"But…?" I prompted.

_"But,_ do you know the effect this is having on the rest of us?"

I folded my arms. "Wait a second. _You're_ the one who's taken it upon themselves to start this discussion. You. Bobby Drake."

"Yeah, yeah, Bobby is displaying a single iota of maturity, we're all fucking shocked. Have you?"

"Have I what?"

"Have you, even for one second, stopped to consider that _maybe_ this isn't actually the best idea you and Scott have ever had?"

For so long, I just stared at him. Is he actually doing this? Am I actually having this conversation with a boy eighteen months my junior? Is this actually happening? Is this really real? Why do I feel like I've inexplicably stumbled into some kind of utterly impossible alternate reality?

"Why does it matter?" I asked finally.

He groaned loudly.

"It _matters_ when your relationship affects Scott's ability to lead," he pointed out. "We've all noticed it. He gets focused on you, and loses sight on the rest of the situation."

"You never said anything before."

"Scott wasn't having problems leading before."

"You _are _aware that we can just get someone _else_ to do it if it concerns you that much, right?"

"Oh come _on,_ Jean!" he had to stop himself from outright screaming at me. "What are our other options? Ororo? She's too angry, she doesn't see things clearly. Her only strategy is to hit what she doesn't like with lightning until it's dead. No one can understand what Hank's _saying_ half the time. Even if that wasn't the case, he can't deal with that kind of pressure and you _know_ it. Warren's inches away from straight out giving up on the whole thing and leaving. _You're _too emotional and high strung; not to mention you need to focus on your powers to be effective, so you can't worry about everyone else."

I folded my arms, affronted. "I am _not_ too emotional and high strung."

Bobby only seemed to get more exasperated at my words.

"Jean. Seriously. Look at yourself and everything you've ever done for two seconds and tell me you're not like that."

"Well…"

_"Jean."_

I huffed loudly and conceded his point, though I was never going to actually admit that to him. "Where is this _going,_ Bobby?"

He looked away. "Scott is the only reason we've gotten out of any fight alive. He can _read_ people. He knows how anyone will react at any given moment. He can think of all the possible scenarios and come up with a solution for all of them. No one else does that. No one else _can_ do that. Not like he does."

"So?"

_"So,_ I- …I _care_ about this. About the team, about what we're doing, and what we're trying to achieve. It _matters_ to me. I don't want to see the entire thing fall apart because of…whatever you've got going on. Tell Scott to pull his goddamn head in, or someone is going to die."

This was followed by a resounding silence as I struggled to find anything to say in reply. For what felt like an eternity, we both stood there, stock still, eyeing each other off. There was nothing _to_ say. Finally, Bobby let out a sigh and started to walk away, before stopping and turning back to face me, looking politely curious.

"Okay, but in all seriousness, does he keep the glasses on, or does he close his eyes?"

I stepped back. _"What?"_

"Come on, _everybody's _curious. How do you two manage sex?"

I folded my arms. "Maybe you should ask _Scott."_

"You know he'd send me through a wall if I asked."

"And I _won't?"_

He nodded. "Point taken. Glasses on, then."

_"Robert Drake!"_

"Going! Going."

Before he could actually make his escape, it was interrupted by the arrival of Hank, striding down the hall towards us, looking grave. Warren quickly followed just a couple of paces behind, and behind _him_ Ororo trailed, her hair a total mess, yawning hugely, and generally looking more exhausted than I'd ever seen her. It wasn't all that surprising – Ororo is not a morning person. That was easy enough to discern after just a few days of living with her.

"Ah, Jean," Hank called my name. "You're up. Good. Do you know if Scott's awake? He needs to hear this."

I forced a smile. "Scott's, ah…tied up in something at the moment."

I winced. Bad choice of words, Jean.

Bobby sniggered. "Kinky."

My lip curled at the comment and Bobby quickly found himself shoved roughly against the wall.

"Wha- …hey! _Ow! _What the hell was that for?"

I ignored him to the best of my ability, and ploughed on with the other, decidedly more important conversation that was happening.

"I'm curious to know what has gotten everyone up this early on a Saturday," I asked.

"It is irrelevant," Ororo growled from behind Hank. "Hank suffers paranoia."

Hank completely ignored her. "It would seem there has been another rogue sentinel attack."

I stiffened.

My blood ran cold.

No.

Oh _no._

"You're kidding," I said, not wanting to believe it. "You've _got_ to be kidding me. _Again?"_

There goes our normal Saturday. Serves me right for getting my hopes up. I really should've known better.

"That's not all," Warren interjected. "Someone was killed. A kid our age. Sentinel shot him down while everyone was panicking."

What?

_What?_

This isn't happening. This isn't real. Someone please tell me this isn't real.

"But they're not supposed to kill people!" I argued, trying to rein in how upset I was and largely failing. "They're only supposed to use deadly force when people fight back! That's why the other one shot at us."

"Like Hank said," Warren sighed, "it went rogue. And the mutants it attacked didn't have the luxury of learning how to harness their powers and fight. Not like us."

Ororo stifled a huge yawn. "This is unrelated to us."

It was pretty cold, even for her. Even for her this early.

"Someone is dead," Warren reminded her quietly.

She shrugged nonchalantly. "People die. It is what people do. They fight and they bleed and they die. Mourning them does nothing, and helps no one."

"I'm astounded by your empathy, Ororo," Warren snapped back at her. "What the hell kind of childhood did you have?"

Ororo's expression did not change. "One where people died."

This was followed by a resounding silence in which we all quickly made mental notes never to push her or get ourselves on her bad side, ever.

"You weren't there when we were attacked," Hank told her. "It could very much be related. The ramifications of this could be catastrophic. At best, it's a terrible, tragic mistake. At worst, it's a declaration of war."

I gaped wordlessly at him. We all did. None of us wanted to believe what he was saying. None of us wanted to think about the possibility.

"You're kidding," Warren said, the disbelief evident. "You're fucking _kidding, _right? You didn't just seriously suggest this could lead into an actual _war,_ did you?"

"It's possible," Hank mused. "Many mutants already feel oppressed, with everything that's been happening. It wouldn't take much at all to provoke a violent response – which, let's be entirely honest, is what most people are waiting for. An excuse to paint mutants as the monsters they believe us to be. People are already scared. A reaction will only make everything worse."

A deathly silence filled the hall as he said this. It was the truth – we all knew that. It was a horrible truth, an inconvenient truth, a truth no one wanted to face.

War.

Everything we never wanted to happen. Everything we've been trying to prevent. Happening. Right now.

"And hey, just when I thought things were getting boring," Bobby chirped in an all too cheerful fashion, probably trying to diffuse the tension. "Mutant terrorists and bigots aren't enough. Let's have a goddamn fucking _war,_ shall we?"

No one answered him. No one had anything to say.

Of course, this was exactly when Scott finally stumbled out of his room, looking pale and exhausted and stressed beyond all reason. And he hasn't even heard the really bad news yet.

"What happened to you?" Bobby asked, looking from Scott to me and back again several times.

Scott shook his head slightly. "Just…family stuff."

"Is everything okay?" Warren asked him, seeing his expression and looking genuinely worried and concerned.

Scott rubbed the back of his neck incessantly and looked away. "God, I hope so."

He paused for a moment, glancing around, apparently only now realising that all of us were standing there, huddled into a group, all of us looking at each other uneasily. Since this never happens, like, _ever,_ he probably well within his rights to be disturbed. He knitted his eyebrows, the concern quickly becoming evident on his face.

"Did I miss something?"

"There was another sentinel attack," Hank told him, wasting no time. "And a person was killed."

Scott remained absolutely still, and his expression went from visibly stressed to completely flat. In less than a second, he turned emotionless. Vacant. He stood motionless and silent, and I could almost hear him meticulously and relentlessly going over every possible aspect and consequence of the situation in his head.

I don't even have to read his mind to know what he's thinking. I don't know if that's good or bad.

"What happened?" he asked finally, in a low, flat, carefully controlled tone. "Do you know?"

"So far as anyone knows, a sentinel went rogue and opened fire on any mutants it came across," Warren said dryly. "Kind of exactly like what happened with us a year ago."

"Who attacked first?"

"Probably the sentinel. We're the only ones crazy enough to deliberately pick fights with giant mutant hunting robots."

"Does it _matter_ who attacked first?" I demanded, folding my arms tightly across my chest. "A kid is _dead._ What the hell are people thinking, letting those machines loose on the general public?"

"It _matters_ because if the sentinel didn't strike first, it was only doing what they're programmed to do," Scott snapped at me. "And _that_ would put the blame on mutants. They'll say the sentinel acted accordingly, in self-defence."

"Can you even call it self-defence if it's a robot?" I asked coldly. "You can rebuild sentinels. You can't bring people back to life."

"That's not the _point,_ Jean."

"Right. Of course it doesn't matter if someone's fucking _dead. _How could I be so stupid?"

"That's not what I-"

"Oh for the _love_ of God, can you two _please_ just get a room?" Bobby interrupted exasperatedly before I could say anything. "It's nauseating to be around either of you."

"Shut up Bobby," both Scott and I said in unison, before realising we'd just said the same thing at the same time and exchanging a slightly awkward glance.

"Room," Bobby repeated in the silence that followed. "Get one."

Scott completely ignored him, and instead began silently making for the stairs, and beyond that, the front door. I struggled with an almost overwhelming desire to telekinetically throw Bobby down the stairs – and maybe Scott as well. And everyone. And everything. This is stupid. This is stupid and insane and I can't believe any of this is actually happening right now.

"Where are you going?" Warren called after Scott's retreating back.

Scott did not stop, or turn to face him, just kept walking.

"To get some air," he answered tersely.

And then he was gone, slamming the door behind him with such force the sound echoed throughout the entrance hall. He's pissed off. Probably at me. Probably at everything.

And right now, I'm not sure if I care.

Hank, Bobby and Warren all exchanged a glance, then saw me and how I was still glowering and promptly decided to leave. In a matter of seconds, all myself and Ororo remained. I don't know why she stayed. I don't know what compelled her to not go immediately back to bed like she'd clearly been longing to this whole morning. Instead, she remained rooted to the spot, staring mindlessly off into the distance as the sky darkened overhead, possibly without her even being aware of it.

Her powers are beautiful, in a wild, untameable way. She also had a better grip on them than I could ever hope to match. Control was never a concern of hers. She had control. She never struggled. She was beautiful and wild and fierce and everything I wanted to be and everything I could never achieve.

It's not fair.

It is _so_ not fair.

"I wish I could do that," I murmured.

Ororo seemed to snap out of a trance the instant I spoke.

"Beg pardon?"

"Your powers," I clarified a little sheepishly. "You just, you can control them so easily. I wish I could have your composure. I wish my powers could just pick their limits and stick with them instead of being in constant flux."

She blinked several times in surprise. "Truly?"

"Yes. You have _no_ idea how fortunate you are when it comes to control."

"I…did not know you struggled."

"I don't always find it hard. Constant flux, and everything."

She didn't answer me immediately, just stared off into the distance like before, her eyes glaze over, suddenly a million miles away.

"I was considered a goddess," she told me quietly. "I could command the skies themselves and people worshipped me for it."

"You're not helping."

She ignored me. "I believed it was true. For most of my life, I did not have another explanation. But whatever abilities I have, whatever power I wield; it pales in comparison to you."

I blinked in surprise. "What?"

"I've seen you," she said dully. "I have seen the ease with which you alter reality around you. It comes to you so naturally I don't believe you even realise it."

My eyes narrowed. "I don't alter reality."

"Don't you?" she contradicted quietly. "If you can alter who a person is, change them according to your whims; if you can physically manipulate the structure of the world around you, how is that not changing reality as it is known?"

A shiver went up my spine. "I don't want to think about it."

"You should," she said, her voice low and barely audible. "At least consider what you can do. I know power. I've had it all my life. I know the good it can do, and the harm it can inflict. I have never known anyone, or any_thing,_ like you."

There was a brief pause as I struggled to think of anything to say.

Ororo didn't look at me.

"If I am a god, Jean, then _you_ are something else entirely."


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

Westchester found itself in the grips of a violent storm no one could have possibly predicted as the day dragged on. Clouds swirled overhead as rain pelted down relentlessly, lightning streaked across the sky in a too bright, overly violent display, thunder exploded overhead before rumbling into the distance, and Ororo Munroe stood motionless in the middle of the lawn, eyes are solid, bone white, her mane of shocking white hair flying around in every direction, completely at the mercy of the howling wind, unaffected and untouched by it all.

People used to worship her as goddess. And right now, that's what she looks like.

Professor Xavier always warned us against lashing out with powers when we get angry.

I don't suppose Ororo has been here long enough to have that talk yet.

I don't blame her, though.

Most people see an absurdly powerful weather controlling mutant girl displaying to the world the full, unbridled might of her abilities, they go inside, or try to get as far away as possible, because powers like that have to have limits, and it's a storm no one wants to be caught up in. Most people don't put their hair up in a tight bun to avoid it going everywhere and calmly walk over to her, dragging a deckchair with them before quietly and calmly nestling into it and looking up at the sky as lightning flashes overhead.

Turns out, I'm not most people.

I have no idea where anyone got _that_ idea from.

I know exactly where everyone gets that notion from.

"Quite the display," I told her cheerfully. "You want to talk about it?"

It was maybe not the best way to open the conversation, but it was the only way I really knew how. I'm used to boys who don't like talking about feelings so much sitting on roofs and being sullen. Not absurdly powerful weather controlling mutants unleashing their powers and letting them grow wildly out of control.

Almost immediately, the wind died down and the pouring rain thinned out into a light drizzle. The last crack of thunder echoed and rolled away into the distance. Ororo closed her eyes for a moment before opening them again and glancing at me, the milky white fading back into their usual bright azure.

Wildly out of control, and yet, always in perfect control of everything.

I've never seen anything like it before.

I've never met anyone like her before.

"There is nothing to talk about," she told me shortly.

I leaned right back in the deckchair and sighed quietly, casually inspecting my nails. "There's always something to talk about."

At least, there is here, in this mansion. There is always something to talk about, always people to argue with, always politics and societal problems to discuss. And it's always of grave importance. We're all very heavy, deep, meaningful people with overly idealistic views of what society could become here. We have to be. It's impossible to get by any other way.

For what seemed like an eternity, she didn't reply to that, just stared mindlessly into the distance, the aggression quickly draining from her face only to be replaced with a melancholic expression. She absently brushed her hair out of her face, while her mind was probably a million miles away. I wasn't sure if I should ask. I wasn't sure if I really wanted to know.

She's one of those distant people who no one _really_ knows. One of those people who seem completely untouchable; utterly impossible to truly understand. And behind that icy wall, raw power that makes itself known. Maybe it's a defence mechanism. Maybe she needs to let everyone know how dangerous she can be so they won't come near her, so everyone keeps a respectful distance.

A goddess, she'd told me.

Right now, I'd almost believe it.

"I have seen much hardship," she murmured finally. "A war is…too much."

I let out a small sigh.

War.

I've heard that word too much today. Everything we've been trying to avoid. Now everyone is talking about it in tired, dejected voices; like they've all given up. Like it's suddenly become inevitable.

Maybe it _is_ inevitable.

Maybe we will end up fighting; maybe we will eventually come to tearing the country apart with blood and violence and hatred. Maybe there is no other way. Maybe peaceful co-existence was an unattainable fantasy, something we could never expect from reality. Maybe it was childish to ever think otherwise.

"We're not actually at war," I pointed out.

"Not _yet,"_ she said, picking up a stick and breaking it several times in her hands before hurling the pieces, one by one. "But that is what they want. They want to fight. They look for an excuse."

I looked down.

People fear what they don't understand.

People fear what they know will kill them.

It's too easy to make people afraid, to make them live in fear. Once something is a threat, people don't see it as anything else. Once that trust is broken, it's almost impossible to rebuild. Once those initial stereotypes set in, it's almost impossible to fight them.

"They're scared," I manage finally.

"That doesn't make it acceptable!" she had to stop herself from outright screaming, whirling around to face me. "Fear does not excuse them, it does not justify them, and it certainly does not make them _right!"_

Her eyes briefly flashed white and thunder exploded overhead. I glanced up a little uneasily, but she managed to calm herself almost immediately. She does have a great handle on her powers. I can't help but get a little jealous every time she manages to exercise such amazing control. She's not the first person I've ever encountered who has such great control at such a young age. She's just the first who can completely lose it and almost immediately pull it back. It's an almost inhuman amount of restraint.

I suppose she's had a whole lot more practice and made a whole lot more mistakes than me. And all in a far harsher environment.

"America. The land of freedom and equal opportunity," she snarled, her lips twisted into a cruel smirk. "But only if you are the _right_ person. And we will never be the right people. We are the invaders; come to pillage and burn and destroy all they've worked for. They will never see us as anything else."

I sighed quietly. "That's why we have to give them reason to see us as normal, just like them. A lot of people have had a bad history with mutants."

I don't know why I'm arguing for a middle ground. I agree with everything she's saying.

So why am I insisting on playing devil's advocate?

For the argument's sake, probably. To get a better idea of her position. I winced a little at the thought. Testing the waters, quietly probing for something to use, a weakness, anything. That's the kind of thing Scott would do. I must've picked it up from him without even realising, and that scares a whole lot more than it should. Sometimes I forget how quietly diabolical Scott actually is.

Well, you know what they say. Love is blind, and all that.

Well, not blind, per say. Just…a whole lot more willing to overlook some of the less than perfect aspects of a person. Because while the positives aren't all you see, they greatly outweigh the bad. It really should be 'love tends to skew your judgement a little, but almost every emotion does that in some way so it's really not all that special'. And I need to stop before I spiral uncontrollably into a deep, dark abyss of emotions I'd rather not consider and existential crises I'd rather not have right now.

Ororo barely noticed me, too absorbed in the argument and what exactly she planned to say.

_"Everyone_ has a past they would prefer not to acknowledge," she began slowly. _"Everyone_ has problems. It changes nothing. Being a victim once does not give you license to treat others as badly as you were treated. You grow up. You move on. You learn to be a better person than those who were cruel to you."

Lead a glorious revolution so the people who were cruel to you will never be cruel to anyone else ever again.

But what about the people who get hurt? What about the people who suffer because of your choices? What about when they rise up? How do you protect your brave new world from the people who would tear it down, like how you tore the old world down?

All too quickly, it becomes a vicious cycle.

So you learn to be a better person than those who were cruel to you.

Break the cycle.

It seems so easy when you talk about it. Forgive those who wronged you. Don't let their cruelty define you. Or you will find that you've already become everything you once hated.

And she knows it.

She knows it a whole lot better than you'd think anyone our age ever would.

I watched her carefully. "You've given this a lot of thought."

"I have an amount of common sense, that is all," she said flatly. "In the face of something far more powerful than you will ever be, fear is natural. But only a fool attacks a god and expects to win."


	26. Chapter Twenty Six

"So what was it like? Living in Africa? You must've seen lions and giraffes and rhinos and all that every day, huh?"

Ororo Munroe lay back in the second deck chair I'd dragged out onto the lawn, eyes closed, soaking in the very last rays of the evening sun that glistened off the dark brown of her skin. Her mood had improved immensely in the past few hours, and she seemed perfectly happy to discuss her past with me. Or, well, _bits_ of it. She kept it strictly to only vague details. I don't know why I was surprised by that decision. From what she's implied in earlier conversations, I probably safe in assuming that I didn't want to know.

"I realise this is what the West knows Africa for, but the entire continent is not a safari," she quipped. "And in any case, I spent most of my life in Cairo. I do not remember much of Kenya."

"Oh yeah, Egypt. Cool. Did you see the pyramids?"

She pulled a faintly disgusted face at that, as if the answer was painfully obvious and she couldn't even begin to believe the ignorance of white people. I slouched a little lower, biting my lip and wishing I'd never said anything at all. I was being so annoying, I knew it. But she took it so graciously and she's usually not the sort to suffer this kind of thing. She tolerates it with me.

So, I don't know. Maybe I should feel flattered?

Right now I feel like a goddamn idiot who can't sate her curiosity in normal ways, like, oh I don't know, maybe _googling it,_ like a _normal_ person who has access to the internet, instead of harassing someone I desperately want to be friends with and make a good impression upon.

A good impression I have this small, niggling feeling I'm entirely failing to make.

How? _How_ did I get this badly out of touch with reality? How on _earth_ did my social skills regress this badly? Like, okay, years living at a boarding school for mutants with no one for company but four mutant teenage boys and one quiet, soft-spoken professor who I rarely talk to or even see outside lessons, that may have something to do with it. No surprises there. But I used to be so good at this. I used to be able to talk to people.

I also used to be _really freaking good_ at telepathy too, before annoying things like _ethics_ and _morality_ got in the way, let alone that whole _locking away your powers for your own good_ thing Professor Xavier continues to insist on doing. Being without telepathy makes it so much harder to relate to people than I thought. Going without the ability to just scan everything about a person in two seconds leaves me to rely on things like body language and as it happens, I can't read body language for _shit._

"Of course I've seen the pyramids. The Giza Necropolis lies on the outskirts of the city."

"The Giza _what?"_

"The pyramid complex," she clarified tiredly. "It is on the edges of Cairo. You can see the city in some photos."

"Oh."

I should have known that.

Of course I should've already known that.

I'm an idiot.

I am _such_ an _idiot._

"And you?"

Ororo's sudden question caught me entirely off-guard – so much so that I jumped in surprise. "I- what?"

"Where did you grow up?" she clarified patiently.

I blinked in surprise and tried not to show how uncomfortable this made me. I mean, of course she was going to ask about it. That's mostly how conversations go, for the most part. I should've expected it. I _did_ expect it. But what am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to tell her? Is there anything about my existence worth even mentioning, after she's told me all these fascinating stories about her own childhood and where she grew up? Compared to hers, my life must seem dull indeed.

"Oh. I live in Annandale-on-Hudson. Been there all my life, pretty much."

Except for the parts of it I spent in Westchester, being a young mutant at a school for young mutants, doing the superhero thing. But she knows that already.

"What is it like there?"

There? Back home? I don't know. What was my childhood like? It was fine. Uneventful, even. Or at least, it _was_ until Annie died and everything else happened. For the longest time, it was just me, my parents, and my sister. There was school. There were friends. There were games and playing and fights and arguments and everything any family that has ever existed has been through a thousand times before. It was all very typical, very standard. What made my life at all different to that of any other upper middle class white girl was that whole 'Annie got hit by a car and I got inside her head by accident and then she died and so did I but I didn't and went catatonic and turns out that's because I'm a fucking mutant' thing. And that took ten years to happen.

So, what is Annandale-on-Hudson actually like? What is my true, unfiltered opinion of my birthplace?

I sighed a little. "It's…nice."

"Nice?" she repeated curiously, confused as to why that was all I had to say.

I shrugged. "Yeah. It's _nice._ Nice houses, nice area, nice people. My dad is a history professor at the college there. It was a nice place to grow up. There's not a lot to say about it."

She seemed strangely fascinated by all of this, and gazed at me with wide eyes. Like she couldn't possibly begin to imagine what I was describing. I couldn't tell how I felt about that. She must have had quite the life if she can't get her head around the dull, contrite manner of a boring, typical upbringing.

"And what about everyone else? Do you know where they are from?"

I bit my lip, trying to think. "We're all local, pretty much. I think…Bobby's from somewhere on Long Island? Scott's from Anchorage, originally. He's probably the furthest away out all of us – aside from you, obviously."

"Originally?"

"They moved. His family actually lives next door to mine."

She paused for a moment, looking pensive.

"You've been close a long time."

It wasn't a question.

And the fact that it wasn't a question immediately made me bristle. We haven't been in a relationship for _that_ long…just, you know, a year or so. And we just so happened to be good friends for ages before that and – and yeah, okay, we've been relatively close for a long time, that's a totally fair observation.

"I suppose we have," I conceded.

All this talk of family and home and Scott has made me realise that despite the fact that we've been dating for a while, we haven't ever done that awkward bringing-your-significant-other-home thing. Maybe because we live together in a boarding school two and a half hours away from home. Maybe because we're already acquainted with each other's families. Maybe because said families live literally next door to each other.

Maybe I'm just heavily banking on the hope that Mom's liking for Scott yet persists, even after all this time, and everything that's happened.

I'm not worried. Why am I worried? She totally still likes him. The world will die and the sun will grow cold before my mother ever finds real fault with Scott Summers. She even took the, ah, _eruption _of his mutant powers in her stride – which is saying a lot, she didn't even take _my_ mutant powers very well. Nevermind that he destroyed a crane and blew out a wall of his bedroom. Elaine Grey will forever think of Scott as a good, polite, well-spoken young man and will only ever approve of him. Her frightening daughter is another matter entirely.

So I'm not worried.

He only leads us into life or death situations every other week. He's only the leader of a super-heroic team of mutant teenagers who have no idea what the fuck they're doing that have a habit of calling themselves the X-Men. A name which implies we're far more established and official than we actually are.

The _X-Men. _The more I think about it the more ridiculous it sounds. The harder it is to accept as reality.

I closed my eyes and leaned back once more, letting out a huge sigh.

Jean Grey, the telekinetic telepath. Marvel Girl, the X-Man.

No. _Not_ Marvel Girl. Something else. Something different. Something more badass. Something that implies power. A name to run away from really quickly. Like Storm. A name that inspires awe and fear in the people who hear it. A name no one will cross.

It doesn't take a genius to work out that _Marvel Girl _is not that name.

It sounds cute. It sounds like I'm a little girl, playing with a sword. It sounds young and happy-go-lucky and fragile. Maybe that would work in some way; get people to underestimate me before I prove them horribly wrong and crush them utterly. But I don't want to do that. I don't want to be cute. I want to be feared.

A sudden rush of wind from behind alerted me to the fact that we weren't alone anymore.

"There you are," I heard Warren's voice call.

I sat up and twisted around to see him approaching us, running his fingers through his hair and looking kind of tired and stressed out, which I guess was understandable, considering the morning we all had.

"Here we are," I said, pulling myself out of the deck chair with a frankly huge amount of effort. "Were you looking for us?"

"Looking for our fearless leader. Figured you'd be- …oh. Hey, Ororo."

Judging his expression and how surprised he was to find Ororo sitting there, he had evidently expected to see someone else.

I can imagine who he thought he'd find here with me.

"What's on your mind?" I asked as politely as possible.

Warren glanced edgily from me, then to Ororo and back again several times, running his through his perfect blond tresses. "Your boyfriend."

"What about him?"

"Do you know where he is?"

I shrugged nonchalantly. "Have you tried his room?"

"He's not there."

"Have you tried the roof?"

He pulled back, surprised. "The roof?"

"He goes up there to sulk sometimes," I clarified. "Wouldn't surprise me if he's been up there since he got back after storming out this morning."

If you can call walking outside in order to get some air storming out. It's probably the closest Scott will ever get. Lord of emotional repression and all that.

And I wonder how and why he irritates me so.

Probably not the greatest idea I've ever had, developing the hugest of crushes on the most unfeeling of my casual acquaintances when I'm basically the opposite.

No, no, he's not unfeeling. He has feelings. He definitely has them. He just doesn't know how to deal with them and when that happens he tends to immediately bury it or ignore it. Everything needs to be concrete with him. Black and white. Right and wrong. The instant things move towards the subjective, and he shuts down. He tries to get all the facts, then he makes up his mind and refuses to be swayed. That's just how he is.

And good _god,_ how that annoys me.

Maybe that makes him a good leader, but it sure as hell doesn't make him a good boyfriend or general human being who exists.

Yet I continue to date him.

Oh, who am I kidding? I love that about him. I love everything about him. Who doesn't?

"You saw him come back?" Warren asked, bringing me back into reality.

I opened my mouth to reply only to cut myself off when I realised I hadn't actually seen him return. I hadn't seen him at all since he left.

"Well, no," I admitted. "But he must be back by now."

"No one's seen him."

"The roof, then. Definitely on the roof."

Warren seemed mildly irritated by that. "I don't think he's on the roof. I'd have noticed."

"I don't know, Warren, he's on the roof kind of a lot."

"Why is this a problem?" Ororo interrupted suddenly. "Doesn't this place have the means to locate any mutant on the planet? Why not use the resources readily available to you?"

Both Warren and I whirled around to face her.

"Cerebro?" Warren asked, dumbfounded. "You're actually suggesting we use _Cerebro_ to find _Scott?"_

"Why not?"

"Because it's _Cerebro._ Because it's protected by a million security measures and none of us know the first thing about hacking. Because it's a very delicate system that breaks easily and it takes ages to repair. Because only the professor can operate it and sometimes it wipes even _him_ out. Do you want more? I have more."

Ororo glanced at me. "Only the professor? That isn't what I was told."

"Oh yes it is Ro, don't lie."

She frowned slightly at his words. "The professor said any advanced telepath had the potential."

Her eyes immediately slid to me.

Oh, right.

Sufficiently advanced telepath. That would be me. I am a telepath. Sometimes I miss the days when I just had the one power. When I was just telekinetic and that was it. I know I technically got the telepathy first, but life's too short for nit-picking.

It didn't matter anyway. Warren clearly wasn't having any of it.

"Breaking into Cerebro and risking Jean's sanity just to find out Scott's just hanging out somewhere in the grounds is totally _not_ worth the risk," he insisted.

I sighed and pulled out my phone before casually scrolling through my contacts.

"As amazingly well thought out as that whole idea sounds, Ororo, maybe it's best we look the old fashioned way," I said cheerfully as I called Scott and brought the phone up to my ear.

Warren glanced at me, before basically face-palming. "Call him. _Call him._ That's brilliant. That's what normal people do. You're a _fucking idiot,_ Warren."

He went on like that for some time while I waited patiently for Scott to answer.

The phone rang.

Scott didn't answer.

The phone kept ringing.

And Scott still didn't answer.

Dread gnawed at the edges of my brain.

"No answer," I murmured as I was eventually sent to voicemail after what felt like an eternity of listening to the phone ring. "Okay. _Now_ I'm worried."

With an enormous sigh, Ororo clawed her way out of her deckchair and onto her feet.

"Last anyone saw him, he went for a walk," she said dryly. "It cannot hurt to look on the streets."

I chewed the inside of my cheek, growing increasingly worried and uncomfortable with every single passing second. "He's been gone all day. If he's not back by now, he could be anywhere."

Warren folded his arms. "She's right though, Jean. It can't hurt to look. I'll check the mansion again. Who knows? Maybe he _is_ on the roof and I missed him?"

He didn't wait for a reply – just immediately spread his wings and with some concentrated effort on his part, launched himself into the sky. I watched him go for a moment before Ororo silently wrapped her hand around my wrist and pulled me towards the gates.

"He is fine," she told me in a low voice.

I blinked several times. "What?"

"Scott. He is fine."

"You don't actually know that. You're just saying it to make me feel better."

She nodded, not bothering to say anything more.

And I think I liked it better when she was trying to reassure me.

Seriously. This silence is going to kill me.

I didn't think I was a terribly anxious person. Today has clearly proven that theory absolutely wrong in every possible respect.

Why? Why is this happening to me? Why does the world insist on doing this to me every single time I care about something, or someone? I cared about Annie. She died. I cared about being normal, being sane. That was taken away from me too. I cared about my powers, and thank to Professor Xavier, I don't have much left of those, either. Now it's Scott.

There are times when I feel like the world is out to get me.

Me and every other teenager in existence, I suppose.

Finally, I spotted someone standing motionless in the distance. Immediately, what felt like a crushing weight lifted as my hopes soared and I sped up to meet them.

Please be him.

Oh god, please, _please_ be him.

"Scott?" I called at the lone, unmoving figure on the sidewalk.

Quickly, I broke into a sprint, relief flooding through me when I saw a glint of light reflected off sunglasses.

_"Scott!"_

He's okay.

Of course he's okay. He's always okay. I don't know why I worried. I'm an idiot for worrying. He's fine. I should never worry because he's been through a whole lot worse and he's come out of it absolutely fine every single time.

"I was so worried about you!" I had to stop myself from outright yelling as I finally reached him. "Where have you been?"

He just stared at me, like I was completely insane. "I was…I went for a walk. I just needed air."

My eyes narrowed. "You went _walking_ for _twelve hours?"_

"W-what? No, I-"

"Look around you. The sun is setting. You've been gone all day."

He pulled back, away from me, glancing up at the sky. For what seemed like an eternity, he just stood there, gazing at his surroundings like he didn't understand how they were real. Beside me, Ororo shifted from side to side, looking at me, then glancing to Scott and back again several times, clearly uncomfortable. I stood, rooted to the spot, at a loss of what to say or what to do.

"How can you lose track of time _that badly?"_ I asked finally. "Jesus Christ, Scott. You nearly gave all of us a heart attack. We were seriously contemplating breaking into Cerebro to find you."

He didn't seem to hear me.

Ororo nudged me gently.

"He isn't well," she murmured.

"What?"

"He's going to fall," she said, nodding back at Scott, who had indeed begun to lose his balance.

I reached out just as he staggered, his legs buckling and giving way beneath him, causing him to fall straight into me. I wasn't expecting him to just lose consciousness and fall against me like that, and his sudden weight was almost enough to send me straight to the ground as well, had I not forced myself to remain standing via telekinesis.

There are no words for how happy I am that I turned out to have some of the most useful powers out there. Let alone being blessed with two of them.

"Scott?" I called out his name, frightened and desperate for a response.

He gave none.

Slowly, I sank to the ground, unable to support him and remain standing. It's almost embarrassing, how weak I am in comparison to what I can easily hold aloft with the power of my mind alone.

Or at least, it would have been embarrassing if this was any other situation.

"Scott?" I called once again, part of me still hoping to rouse him.

When he didn't react, I glanced up at Ororo, who seemed to have frozen on the spot.

"Call…" I trailed off into silence, realising that I had no idea who to call.

An ambulance? He isn't hurt. He's not sick. Or at least, he never showed any signs of being sick. It might be something…mutant-y…in nature; in which case there's likely nothing they can do. There's no guarantee they'll even agree to help when they find he's a mutant, either. They're not supposed to do that, not technically, but it's not like anyone is going to cause a riot if it does happen. Well, other mutants might. Which will then send the world spiralling down a chaotic path no one wants to see become reality.

So, who do I ask her to call, then? Professor Xavier? He'll be on his way back by now anyway. He can't get here any faster whether we tell him what happened or not.

"Help me," I managed finally.

Ororo nodded curtly before moving over to me, although she wasn't quite sure how she was supposed to help me carry him or drag him or move him at all. I gazed down at his face, still trying to work out what was wrong.

"What's going on with you, Scott?" I asked mostly myself, since he couldn't possibly reply.

"A secondary mutation, perhaps?" Ororo suggested quietly. "That has been known to happen."

I shook my head. "It's not that."

"How do you know?"

"Because if there's one thing I'm an expert on, it's having two different mutant powers simultaneously," I answered curtly. "Just…trust me. It's not that. We'd know if it was."

"You're sure?"

"We'd know," I repeated.

Will he be alright?

Please be alright, Scott.

_He'll be fine,_ I told myself firmly.

He has to be.


	27. Chapter Twenty Seven

Hank called Professor Xavier. No one really knew what to do. This kind of thing had never happened before. Bullets and blades? That we can handle. This was…I don't know. Something else.

And evidently, none of us knew how to even begin dealing with it.

I paced around Scott's room, refusing to leave until he woke up, until I knew for certain that he was okay. I went over what happened on the street over and over again, looking for anything I might've missed before. I don't know how that was supposed to help. I just didn't know what else to do as I waited for Professor Xavier to return and fix everything for us because apparently there isn't anything on this planet that man can't do.

He'll use telepathy somehow. He'll find whatever is wrong with Scott, and he'll make it right. Then it will all be fine and we can all return to our normal – aha, _normal,_ she says – lives and it will be like none of it ever happened. And I'll look back on this day and I'll laugh at how unnecessarily uptight and anxious I was.

Oh, god. What if he's really not okay? What if he's the kind of not okay Professor Xavier can't fix? What will I do then? What do any of us do then? We don't have a back-up leader, someone who can take the reins should anything happen to Scott. Which I guess is a huge oversight on our part.

We should've been more prepared.

_I_ should have been more prepared.

What's wrong with you, Scott? Why did this have to happen? Why did this have to happen _now?_

Is he sick? Is he going to die?

Stop.

Just _stop,_ Jean. Stop panicking. Stop thinking of all the worst possible scenarios. Stop convincing yourself of them. Just breathe. Breathe and calm the fuck down and breathe.

Ugh, I'm a mess.

I'm such a goddamn mess right now and it's all Scott's fault.

Not to mention, my panicked reaction to this whole fiasco has probably scared Ororo to the point that she'll never want to talk to me again. I mean, I don't usually panic. I didn't think I even had the potential to be this anxious about something. I'm so scared and I'm so confused and I frustrated with myself because I was just beginning to become friends with someone who is quite clearly the coolest person on the whole freaking planet and lo and behold, this happened.

Jean. She saw what happened. She'll understand.

Why, oh _why_ am I so obsessed with other people's opinions of me? Why must I always strive to be perfect and universally accept at all times? Why do I drive myself into the ground trying to be flawless when I'm quite clearly _not?_

Is this a problem everyone has, or is it just me?

Pretty sure everyone has this problem. At the very least, Scott does.

I frowned a little. We're probably a whole lot more similar than I'd ever admit. I mean, Scott's great. He really is, and I could never think badly of him. But he's not the kind of person you actually want to _be_ like.

Ugh. I'm too young for this. I'm too young to have to deal with any of this.

"I'm…in bed?" Scott's voice mumbled hoarsely, cutting through the silence.

I whirled around in surprise, to find him still lying there, groping blindly at the covers, clearly confused. I don't know how he managed to train himself to keep his eyes closed upon waking up. The more I think about it the more impressed I am that he actually succeeded in doing so. That probably requires more discipline than I even have to start off with.

"Hang on a minute," I called gently, telekinetically picking up his glasses and causing them to fly across the room before landing neatly on his chest. He pulled back in surprise, before relaxing putting them on, pressing them against his face. When he was done making sure he could open his eyes safely, he proceeded to look around wildly, not quite sure what to make of anything. Eventually, his gaze landed on me, and his eyebrows rose just slightly.

"Are you okay?"

I blinked in surprise. That was…so _not_ what I was expecting him to say. But there he is, pushing himself up into a sitting position, watching me carefully like he's worried I'll burst into tears or something. I forced a small, weak smile.

"I'm fine. You just scared me."

He didn't really seem to know what to make of my reply. He stared at me in silence what seemed like an eternity before glancing away.

"Sorry," he mumbled finally.

For a moment, we both just watched each other silently, neither really knowing what to make of the situation Finally, I let out a quiet sigh and crossed the room, settling on the foot of his bed, trying to clear my head and carefully assess everything about today.

Seems like this morning was ages ago. Seems like everything was ages ago.

"So…" I began, only to trail off into silence.

Scott glanced up at me, looking mildly curious. "So?"

"Are we going to talk about what on earth happened with you today?"

"What do you mean?"

"After you stormed out this morning," I clarified.

He looked away. "I didn't storm out."

"Sorry, after you _'went to get some air'?"_

He paused for a moment, obviously thinking about it. Going over everything he remembered, carefully analysing every single aspect of the situation like he always does. I watched him do this in silence, not wanting to seem impatient, even though I _was_ actually getting pretty impatient. But he only just woke up. He's disorientated. And no one seems to have any idea of what the hell is going on.

I don't think I'd ever seen him so confused.

"It's dark," he murmured finally.

I glanced out the window as well. "So it is."

"I don't remember it getting dark?"

My eyes narrowed slightly. "That would be because it happened after you passed out."

"I- _what?"_

"On the street. Remember?"

"No."

Of course you don't. That would just be _too damn easy._

"Honestly Scott, why did you think you were in bed?"

He didn't say anything for a while, just stared blankly at the wall before massaging his forehead, looking more frustrated than ever before.

"How long was I out?" he asked after a short pause.

I glanced at the clock. "An hour, maybe? Not long."

"Not all day then."

"Apparently not. Are you telling me you don't remember? _Any_ of it?"

"Not since this morning," he muttered, slouching. "Dammit, this hasn't happened to me in years."

"Wait," I called out. "Wait, wait, _wait._ What? This has happened to you before?"

"A few times," he answered a little grudgingly.

"And you didn't _tell_ me?"

"I didn't think it mattered."

"You routinely black out and lose _entire days_ and somehow didn't think it was important enough to share?" I asked incredulously. "You can't be _serious,_ Scott! That could mean anything! It could be a sign of illness, or shock, or emotional trauma, or…or something. You've _already got_ a damaged brain. You need to take better care of yourself."

Why didn't he mention this before? To me, to Professor Xavier, to _anyone? _How do you reach the conclusion that signs your already damaged brain is acting up aren't serious? How does he just decide supressing stuff like that is the wisest course of action? Scott's sharp and intelligent and talented and generally just a very clever person, but he's such a goddamn _idiot_ when it comes to himself and his own wellbeing.

There has to be something else at work here.

People don't just _pass out_ and lose _entire days_ for no reason.

He very clearly did not appreciate my fretting. "I'm _fine."_

That's a lie.

That's the biggest, most obvious lie you've ever told and you _know_ it, Scott Summers.

"You are _not_ fine," I snarled. "Do not for one _second_ pretend that you're fine."

"Jesus Christ, why is this such a big deal to you?"

"Why is it _not_ a big deal to _you?"_ I snapped back. "I don't think you understand what you're saying."

I think your threshold of weird is so out of whack that things that are genuinely weird don't seem important. I don't think you realise just how crazy you actually are, and how crazy you actually have to be for things to get that way in the first place. I think your entire view of the world is drastically skewed. And that's coming from me. The telekinetic telepath who experienced dying – actual, real, _death_ – when she was ten and basically caused herself to go catatonic because of it.

So what does that say about _you,_ Scott?

That's it. If he isn't going use this to get intro-perspective and at least attempt to find out what his own deal is, I'm just going to have to do it for him.

"Let me see."

He pulled back. "What?"

"Let me _see,_ Scott," I repeated. "Maybe I can find something you can't."

"You want to use _telepathy _on me? Because I passed out?" he asked, disbelief and fear colouring his tone. "There are so many reasons for that being a bad idea I don't even know where to begin."

"Scott Summers, remember that I can force my way into your mind whenever I please," I reminded him scathingly – even if it wasn't technically true at present. "I would just prefer to have your permission first."

"So you're telling me I don't have a choice."

"Sure you do. They'll just both end the same way."

"That's not a choice, Jean."

"Let. Me. _See,"_ I repeated harshly now, carefully framing each word for extra emphasis.

"Why are you pushing this so hard?" he asked, now on the defensive.

I folded my arms angrily, at a loss of how oblivious he was being. Does he not realise what his little disappearing act did to the rest of us? Did to _me?_ How can someone fail so utterly at being even a little empathetic? Is he _genuinely _that _clueless?_

"Because you could've _died,_ Scott," I pointed out. "Because no one knew where you were and you never answered your goddamn phone and I _can't-"_

I can't do this. I can't keep putting your wellbeing above my own. I can't continue keeping tabs on you at all times because I'm scared you'll waste away. I can't go spiralling into a panic every time you don't answer your phone. I can't always be here to reassure you whenever anything goes wrong. I can't keep being your support without any of my own.

He's so messed up and _I'm_ so messed up and we're all so crazy and insane and messed up in all these different ways it's hard to really know what _normal_ is anymore. Not _human-without-powers-normal._ I mean _actual-functioning-human-being-normal._

"…I just, I can't go through that again," I murmured. "If something bad is happening – and something bad is _always_ happening – that you can't remember, then I want to help. I want to find answers."

_"Nothing_ bad is happening to me."

"He says, having blacked out for almost an entire day. Which is apparently not even an uncommon occurrence. Why can't you see that this is abnormal?"

"And you think telepathy is supposed to somehow help?"

"It would be a _start,"_ I argued, growing increasingly impassioned the longer the conversation dragged on. _"Please,_ Scott. I know you don't like telepathy. I know it makes you uncomfortable. But I'm not going to do anything bad to you, I'm not going to alter anything. I just want to help you."

He groaned quietly and turned away, saying nothing. I sighed.

"I'm not asking you to suddenly be totally okay with someone else getting inside your head, Scott; I'm asking you to trust me. Just this once. Trust me. Trust that I'm not going to hurt you."

"I'm not scared that you're going to hurt me," he told me flatly, in a tone that told me he thought I was being stupid.

"Maybe not consciously," I replied quietly. "But you _are_ scared. I know fear when I see it, Scott."

He didn't reply.

Maybe he had nothing to say.

Maybe he _did,_ and had elected to remain silent for my sake.

"Let me see, Scott," I repeated, quiet and pleading this time.

He let out an almighty sigh and glanced away. "Okay."

I smiled. "I'll be gentle, I promise."

He just grunted in reply, obviously far from impressed. Slowly, I leaned in, taking his hands in mine, and closing my eyes in some attempt to make it easier to concentrate.

Gentle.

That's not typically how I do things, but I can do that. I can be gentle. If I want to be.

I flitted around on the edges of his psyche, gently pushing at places, trying to find my way through a mind that I've not had a lot of actual, deliberate contact with in the past. Not like this. It makes it harder. I have to be careful. Slow. Agonisingly slow. Meticulous and careful with every move I make.

Using telepathy in this way is not what I'm used to. But it's Scott and in any case, I'm not powerful enough to really do anything else. If he really wanted to block me out, he probably could.

Better not be thinking about that while I'm rummaging around in his brain, after I've just totally lied to him about what I actually possess the ability to do. He's not an idiot. He'll realise sooner or later.

I was looking for something, _anything_ that would tell me what the hell happened to him today, but I don't know how to recover lost memories. I don't know if it's even possible to make someone remember what they've already forgotten, or never remembered in the first place. I don't if it's possible for even telepathy to cure that kind of anterograde amnesia.

What am I looking for? I don't actually know. And that complicates things. It complicates everything.

Where did you go, Scott?

If he doesn't even know, how can I, with my limited power and my limited knowledge of how to utilise my abilities, possibly find out?

I just want to help him. I want to get to the bottom of this. I don't want him to disappear on me again. I don't want to be stuck where I am, without him, unaware of how he is, if he's in need of help or if he's even still alive. There needs to be some way to make it so I know, no matter where we are. Because I can't go through that again. I refuse to go through that again. Never again.

I don't ever want to be apart from him.

Right as that thought crossed my mind, there was a sudden surge of power, completely unbidden. My eyes flew open in surprise and I quickly pulled away from Scott, gasping in surprise.

"Are you okay?" he asked urgently, immediately worried. "What happened?"

I blinked several times before working to ground myself in reality once more. "I…"

I don't know. I don't know what that was. Maybe I'm just being stupid.

"You're not being stupid," Scott murmured.

I threw my hands up in the air. "But I keep…wait. Wait, wait, _wait._ Time out. Back up. Did I say something out loud without realising I said anything out loud?"

"What?"

He seemed more confused than ever before. My eyes narrowed and for a moment, just watched him closely, not quite sure what to make of what just happened.

"Are you…okay?" I asked slowly, tentatively.

His brow furrowed and he began massaging his temples furiously. "I don't- …something's weird. I feel weird."

I pause for moment, suddenly realised that _I_ felt really weird too. Not the kind of weird I could really explain, either. I also couldn't tell where the weirdness was coming from. Nothing felt any different.

And yet, _everything _felt different.

W-what…what just-?

Why do I-?

It was at that point the full weight and gravity of what I'd managed to do to both myself and my boyfriend finally dawned on me.

"Ah. Scott, I- uh, I may have, um, done something."

"What?" he asked in straight, carefully guarded tone. _She's nervous. This can't be good._

"A really stupid and not good thing."

"What?" he repeated, the tiniest amount of irritation coming through now._ This really cannot be in any way good._

Immediately, I tried to shut it out, to shut _him_ out, to give him some measure of privacy. The words, the thoughts, they quickly disappeared. But everything else – the confusion, the apprehension, the dread of what I was about to say, all the feelings remained. And as much as I tried, I couldn't rid myself of those.

Which means he's getting all of _my_ emotions too.

Ah, _fuck._

Idiot.

Stupid, worthless, reckless, unthinking, foolish, stupid, _stupid idiot._

"Something really intimate and deeply personal and totally beyond any sort of personal boundaries," I managed finally, trying desperately to word it in some way that didn't make it sound as catastrophically bad as it actually was.

_"Jean."_

I bit my lip and rolled my shoulders back. "So…how would you feel if, simply by chance, the two of us just so happened to, uh, _enduphavingourmindspermanentlylinked?"_

It all came out in a rush, all in one breath, said so quickly it was hard to discern what I'd said at all. Scott pulled back, clearly confused and unable to make sense of my words. His face twisted into that expression he always gets when he gets yet another headache. And right on cue, I could feel my own brain beginning to ache.

Because of course this happened.

_"What?"_

"You. Me. Telepathically linked," I squeaked. "…possibly forever."

…I may have just made the biggest mistake ever.

It's not my _fault!_ Who was I to know I'd have another power fluctuation right at that particular moment?

I'm an idiot, I'm an idiot, I'm an idiot, I'm such a goddamn _fucking idiot!_

It was an accident! I couldn't control it! How was I supposed to know?

Well then, you shouldn't have fucking _done it, Jean!_

Idiot. Stupid, irresponsible, reckless _idiot._

He watched me carefully. For an agonisingly long time, there was nothing but silence.

Idiot.

Idiot, idiot, _idiot!_

Then he let out a quiet exhale. "Okay."

"…okay?" I repeated faintly, not quite sure what he meant.

He just nodded. "Okay."

What.

_What?_

Do you not realise what I've just _done?_ To _both_ of us? There's not going back from this. It's a mistake I can't fix. It may even be a mistake Professor Xavier won't be able to fix. There's a very likely chance we'll be stuck like this for the rest of our lives.

And he's just sitting there, totally nonchalant. There's this strange sort of serene calm that's slowly making its way into my panicked brain – and it can only be coming from him.

This is the boy who was freaking out about telepathy something like ten minutes ago.

You realise this is probably _permanent,_ don't you, Scott?

"Jean," he called softly, placing his hand on mine. "It's okay. We'll work it out."

"It's _not okay!"_ I had to stop myself from outright screaming. "I don't even know what I just _did."_

I can't feel all of _his_ emotions, I've barely got a hold of _mine!_

"We'll work it out," he repeated, quietly, calmly, as if this was not the life-altering thing it actually was.

He's not calm. He cannot possibly be as calm as he's pretending. There's no way.

…I don't suppose he earned the title of lord of emotional repression for no reason.

Holy _shit,_ Scott, how do you _do _that?

He's just making light of this to make me feel better. But he can't do that. Not now. I mean, come on. I've just gone and done something really invasive and permanent. We will be forced to share everything. And I mean, _everything._ Thoughts, feelings, memories, hopes, dreams, even our basic personalities. Everything will be shared, and when things are shared like that, they get jumbled up and confused and it all becomes warped and twisted into some strange amalgamation of the two. There's no telling what the ramifications of this will be. We're two very different people, forced to share _minds_ because I made a stupid mistake. Because I overestimated myself and my ability to keep my fluctuations under control. Now I'm paying the price for it, and it would almost be okay if Scott wasn't _also_ paying the price for it.

Why did I let this happen? How _could_ I let this happen?

_Idiot._

"Jean, if you call yourself an idiot _one more time, _I'm going to lose my shit," he told me, irritated now – which was more than likely stemming from _my_ panic leaking into _his_ brain.

"Oh, god," I murmured. "I don't know what to do. I have no idea what to do."

He glanced back up at me. "Block it out."

I blinked several times. "I- what?"

"Block it out," he repeated. "Like you normally would. The professor did teach you how to do _that,_ didn't he?"

"That's not going to _fix it,_ Scott," I told him shortly. "Besides, what do you think I've been trying to do the entire time we've been having this conversation?"

"Then why can _I _still feel whatever _you're_ feeling?"

"It's a _link. _A two-way link that means blocking it out goes _both_ ways, Scott," I told him dryly, before softening a little when I noticed the fear that hid under his iron resolve and sheer determination to make it seem like everything was okay.

I knew you weren't okay with it.

"Here," I murmured, taking his hands once more. "I'll teach you."


	28. Chapter Twenty Eight

However weird accidentally establishing an entirely permanent and utterly irreversible mental link with my boyfriend was, it pales in comparison to what happened just a couple of hours afterward.

Yes, it gets worse.

It always gets worse.

And there is my whole life summed up in nutshell.

"Are you aware of how awkward it's going to be if we break up?"

Scott let out an almighty sigh and for a time, didn't reply. He didn't need to. I knew. He did. It had scarce left his mind since the initial shock of the whole situation wore off. We'd long since given up on trying to completely block each other out – it was too exhausting. And trying to do it for every waking minute was going to take a colossal amount of effort neither of us even had to begin with. So, instead, we'd given up and just ended up lying around in utter silence, trying to test the limits of both the link itself and our mental endurance.

So far we'd learned that if I poked at it too much, my vision would flash red and Scott would get a headache.

It changed things. It changed everything. Suddenly, neither of us could do anything without the other knowing about it. We couldn't lie to each other. We couldn't think anything without getting a second opinion, whether we wanted it or not. It was like having a real life Jiminy Cricket. That existed not just in my head, but also in real life, as my boyfriend. It was like dating Jiminy Cricket.

"Bad mental image, _bad mental image!"_ Scott had to stop himself from outright yelling the instant the thought crossed my mind.

"Sorry."

I was doomed to this. My own foolishness had sealed my fate, and now I was eternally bonded to the boy who lay sprawled out across his bed.

…there are worse people in the world to share minds with, I suppose.

"I'm flattered," came the dry, vaguely sarcastic reply to my thoughts. "Honestly."

"Scott, you have _got_ to stop doing that."

"Annoying, isn't it?"

_"Please_ don't tell me you're just going to use this as an opportunity to show me every single conceivable reason why you don't like telepathy."

"I can scarcely think of a better time."

"I can."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. How about _never?"_

He laughed. "Should've seen that coming."

You really should've.

I let out a sigh. "Do you even know _why_ you feel that way?"

He let out a harsh shout of bitter laughter. "Really? We're going there?"

"I'm curious."

"And I don't get what's so hard for you to understand."

I suppose he had a point. When I thought about it – and I mean, _really _thought about it – it wasn't that difficult to work out. All I really have to do is remember how I feel every time Professor Xavier does something with his own, extremely powerful telepathy, and it all makes a little more sense. Despite it being one of the more common mutant powers, not everyone is a telepath. It's pretty logical that someone would be uncomfortable with the idea of a telepath getting inside their head, happily invading that last bulwark of privacy like it's nothing.

But Scott goes beyond that. He's not just uncomfortable with it – he's genuinely _frightened_ of it. He's more frightened of it than all those other things he's paranoid about. Oh, he tries to hide it, and on the most part does it very well. But the fear is there. I can feel it now. He can't hide that anymore. Not from me.

Fears don't appear out of nowhere. They come from something. There is always a root to the problem.

"Do you always try to psychoanalyse me like that?"

Dammit, Scott.

This is going to get _really _old, _really _quickly.

"When you stop being so complicated and having so many problems you refuse to address, maybe I'll stop."

"Believe me, I'm trying. New things keep coming up beyond my control."

"I'll take your word for it," I murmured, having seen exactly what he was talking about first hand.

That seems to be the way all our lives go these days. Nothing ever changes. Problems evolve into bigger, more complicated problems and it all goes downhill from there.

There was a sudden knock at the door, which immediately caused both of us to bolt upright in surprise.

"Y-yeah?" Scott called shakily as I glanced edgily at the clock, wondering how late we'd stayed up, taking jabs at each other's thoughts. Ah, it's late. Not too late, but late enough that we should've stopped experimenting with the link some time ago.

The door swung open to reveal Professor Xavier, somehow managing to be the most intimidating person in the entire world despite being bound to a wheelchair.

What is he-?

Oh, right, this is about what happened on the street this evening. Of course. Right. Hank called him. I'd completely forgotten. Everything that had happened between now and then distracted me, I suppose.

"Professor," Scott exclaimed in surprise. "I, uh…we were…"

…please don't say anything, please don't tell him, I don't want to get chewed out by the Professor for my lack of foresight today Scott please, please, for the love God and all that's holy don't say anything…

"Scott," he interrupted sharply, his eyes fixating on the boy in question. "Hank told me what happened. Are you alright?"

Scott had to take a couple of seconds to collect himself, apparently as shocked and surprised to see Professor Xavier as I was. His hands balled up into tight fists, clenching fistfuls of bedspread as he tried to think of something, anything to say.

"I- …I'm fine," he answered jerkily. "It was just an episode."

"Happens to him all the time, apparently," I cut in a little snidely.

Though Professor Xavier barely acknowledged that I'd spoken at all, Scott shot me a warning look.

"Right," I muttered as I got to my feet. "I'll just…go, then."

I waited for a reply. When one never came, I just sighed and quickly sidled out of the room.

Better I leave right now than remain and greatly increase my chances of receiving an angry lecture on how to better manage my telepathy. Better to try to avoid that as much as possible. Not to mention, I'm not keen on repeating that whole _vault_ scenario.

A shiver went up my spine as I clicked the door shut behind me.

All the power Professor Xavier has locked away over the years…and I'm still getting stronger all the time. I wonder what I'd be like if I had all of it. I wonder what I'd be able to do. The idea seems to frighten the professor, so…what does that mean? Can I even begin to imagine what that would be like? I could probably do things I've never dreamed of. I could probably do _anything._

Never hurts to be curious, does it?

I wish I didn't have to be scared of the outcome. I wish I didn't have to keep my powers constantly in check, out of fear of what they will inevitably grow into.

I winced a little. I need to stop thinking like that, or Scott will notice – if he hasn't already. And I'm sure the second he _does_ notice, he'll snitch on me, like the little snitch he is.

You hear me, Scott? You snitch on me and this link will be the _least_ of your goddamned problems.

He's not even paying attention – hyper focused on whatever conversation he's having. I could probably telepathically eavesdrop if I wanted to, but I'm sure Professor Xavier will sense my presence and that's not a risk I feel like taking. Ever.

"Is he well?" Ororo's voice asked from behind me.

I whirled around to find her standing there, looking a strange mix of curious and concerned. For what seemed like too long, I just stared aimlessly at her before managing a stiff nod.

"Yes. Yeah, he's fine. Just an episode."

Her eyebrows rose just slightly. "Not a secondary mutation?"

I shook my head. "Doesn't look like it."

She nodded curtly. "That is fortunate."

There was a brief pause that seemed to last all of two and a half seconds before the silence was promptly broken by yet another voice.

"Jean!" Warren called, just about running down the hallway towards us. "Is Scott okay?"

I sighed and raked my fingers through my hair, trying not to get annoyed at how often I was going to be asked that question. "He seems fine. Professor Xavier is talking to him."

He breathed an audible sigh of relief. "Thank god for that."

A smile pulled at the corners of my lips. "Why, Warren – don't tell me you were actually _worried."_

"Haha," he drawled sarcastically. "Scott's practically the best friend I have. Of course I was worried."

"I'm sure he'll be flattered to hear that."

I really should've told them hours ago, back when Scott first actually woke up after passing out. They'd all been waiting – apparently anxiously – for news that I could've given them some time ago. Somehow I'd just forgotten all about that and then I mind-melded myself with Scott and got distracted by that whole fiasco and now I just…I should've told them hours ago. Somehow I forget that they're Scott's friends too. And my friends. Good friends. Friends who had recognised that I wanted to be there when Scott recovered and so left me alone, waiting until I emerged for news.

And I'd completely forgotten about them.

Like I even needed one more reason to feel awful about myself.

Speaking of feeling awful…

I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose as my head suddenly started pounding and a wave of nausea washed over me for some unknown reason. My head spun and for a moment, my vision blurred and my balance was suddenly thrown off. I swayed and reached out to steady myself only to grasp at air; not quite able to make out where the walls were.

"Jean?" Ororo called worriedly.

"I- …I don't…"

There was the flash of an image, so fast and blurry I couldn't begin to discern what it was supposed to be. I blinked several times and shook my head, trying to claw my way back to being coherent. I staggered backwards, losing my balance just as the world completely faded from view.

_Darkness._

_Pain._

_Something holding me, restraining me, it hurts, oh god it hurts-_

_Laughter. Cackling, insane, maniacal laughter. _

_His face, sickeningly pale, leering down at me from above with a sadistic, sinister grin and it's him, I can see his face and it's always him, he's there, he's always there, he's always right there-_

_Sinister._

"Stop. Stop, _stop!"_

A voice.

Scott's voice?

No.

Mine.

My eyes flew open and I suddenly found myself staring at Warren's face – and beyond that, the ceiling above him. He'd obviously caught me as I'd fallen, his wings flaring out as he tried to regain his balance without dropping me. For a moment, just the briefest, strangest of moments, I couldn't tell if he was real or some strange hallucination I was having. That's the problem with his weird literal-angel-ness.

What…what was…?

"Jean?" Warren called my name quietly. "Are you okay?"

I blinked several times and tried to refocus on reality. Slowly, I used him to pull myself back to my feet as my head cleared and I was left with nothing but confusion and the acidic taste of bile in my throat.

That was…that was a whole lot of stuff I really didn't need to see. Pain I never experienced. Fears I didn't have. Memories that weren't mine. Bleeding over into my consciousness from someone else.

"I'm…fine. I'm okay."

"Mind telling us what that even was?"

"Just…a telepathic episode. Nothing to worry about."

Ororo folded her arms and eyed me off carefully, but said nothing. She doesn't believe me. She knows better than that. She's one of those people who have that innate gift of spotting a lie even without the aid of telepathy.

That's a conversation I'm really going to hate having later.

There was no time to consider it, however, when Scott burst out of his bedroom and, without giving any of us so much as glance, sprinted down the hallway at full pelt, making a beeline for the nearest bathroom and slamming the door with a surprising amount of force behind him.

And for what seemed like an eternity, we all just stood there, staring aimlessly off in the direction our fearless leader had vanished, not sure what to make of what had just happened. Slowly, Warren began to move after him, but a voice caused him to immediately halt in his tracks.

"Warren," Professor Xavier murmured as he exited Scott's room. "Give him space. He will need it."

I whirled around to face my mentor – my wonderful, beloved mentor to whom I owed my life and maybe even more – eyes wide with disbelief and rage.

"What did you _do?"_ I demanded furiously. "What did you do to him?"

The professor seemed absolutely unmoved by me. "I did what you tried to do and absolutely should not have done, Jean."

Oh…_shit._

I stood stock still, frozen in place by shock and horror. Warren and Ororo, meanwhile, had no real idea of what Professor Xavier had said and had no such reaction.

"What's wrong?" Warren asked, the worry in his tone evident. "Is he going to be okay?"

"There is a past he needs to confront," Professor Xavier answered cryptically. "Whether he recovers is entirely up to him. Now, it's late, and I would advise you all at least attempt to get some sleep. It has been an incredibly long day for all of us."

Slowly, stiffly, Warren nodded before turning heel and retreating to his own room, further down the hall. Ororo looked at me, then at Professor Xavier and back again several times before finally letting out an exhausted sigh and following suit. I remained rooted in place, unable to really do or think anything beyond the fact that Professor Xavier had just ratted me out. Big time. And Scott is apparently having some kind of obvious mental breakdown that I'm not sure I want to know the details of.

For too long, there was only silence. But it was that agonising silence that happens when you're trapped in the same place as a caregiver who is clearly disappointed and angry with you. It's that silence just before the lecture you know will last for hours and will leave you feeling like a broken human being and the world's worst screw up for daring to fail to meet expectations.

And it went on.

And on.

And _on._

"I was trying to help," I whispered after what seemed like an age, unable to bear it any longer.

"I know," he replied softly. "But it was action without thinking, Jean. We've _spoken_ of this, time and again."

I hung my head and said nothing. There was nothing I could say. All I could do was wallow in self-pity and the fact that I've let down one of the few people who have really believed in me all this time.

Action without thinking.

Power without focus.

Emotion without reason.

A fire burning out of control.

That's what I am.

In the end, that's _all_ I am.

"I will see you in my study tomorrow morning."

It wasn't a question. Wasn't a request. It was an order.

I just nodded mutely. It seemed to be enough for him.

"Goodnight, Jean."

"…goodnight, Professor Xavier."

And then, he was gone.

Slowly, I turned heel and headed to the bathroom Scott had vanished into. Carefully, gently, I knocked on the door, even though I knew I was never going to get a reply. I paused, waiting there for a couple of seconds before turning the knob and slowly pushing the door open, peeking inside.

Scott was keeled over on the floor, leaning over the toilet, hacking and coughing and gasping desperately for air, obviously having just thrown up. Probably a bunch of times. He was deathly pale, barefaced, sweating profusely and visibly quaking. The last time I'd seen him looking this wrecked, it was when I found him curled up in the alley just after his powers manifested. I was never supposed to find him in this state again. That chapter of our lives was supposed to be over. For almost three years now, it _had_ been over. Scott wasn't that panicked boy anymore. He wasn't supposed to be.

"Scott?" I called his name gently, entering the room proper and closing the door behind me. "I just saw…a bunch of things. Are you- …are you okay?"

He didn't reply.

"…Scott?"

"Nathan Milbury," he gasped suddenly.

I blinked several times. "What?"

"He lived next door to my grandparents back in Anchorage. They were friends – _good_ friends. He'd come over sometimes, when we were there, ask me and Alex how we were and what we were doing in school. He was _nice. _And- and the doctor, _my_ doctor, in the hospital, after the accident…he- he was the only one who didn't act like I was a goddamned miracle. He kept telling me I survived because of my own strength and I…I _liked_ that. It made me feel better. Like my survival was more than just a coincidence. Like some weird sense of security."

"Scott…"

For a brief second, he turned his head just enough to face me, before returning to his former position. "And Dr Essex. He…seemed to understand. More than any of the other doctors I saw because of the headaches. He didn't act like I was damaged, or dying. He just wanted me to be able to function better."

"Scott, what are you talking about?"

"It was _him,"_ he snarled, his voice so full of hatred and utmost loathing that I pulled back in surprise. "It was _always_ him. Every single _fucking_ time. It was _him."_

I'd never heard Scott use such a tone. I'd never seen him so full of hate and rage. He was usually expertly maintained a perfect composure, no matter how harrowing the situation he found himself in. He didn't lose it. He never lost it. Not like this.

"He knew. He knew everything. He gave me the glasses because he _knew_ about my powers. That I wouldn't be able to control it. He knew about the brain damage – of course he did, he was _there_ – and he studied me enough to know about the _one thing_ that can stop the beams. Stop _me. _My entire life, and he…he…"

Slowly, shakily, he forced himself to his feet, clutching the wall for support. Slowly, blindly, he made his way over to the counter, his fingers eventually closing around his glasses.

"He got inside my head. He made it so I couldn't remember. That I could _never_ remember," he snarled, gripping the glasses so tightly that his knuckles had begun to whiten. "I'm an experiment. That's it. That's all I am. I'm just his goddamn _fucking experiment."_

He screamed and hurled his glasses at the wall with a strength and speed that I'd never seen from him before. They hit the tiles with a _crack_ before clattering to the floor, somehow largely unharmed. I pressed myself against the wall, terrified and desperate to flee, and yet unable to move. I was scared. I was _so_ scared. Of him, of his rage, of the fact that his emotions were bleeding over into mine and there was nothing I could do about it.

Scott didn't react. Maybe he didn't notice – too caught up in the pain and the fear and the confusion and the _rage_ that dominated his every thought.

"I'll kill him," he snarled viciously. "If I ever find him, if he ever shows his face to me again, I'll _kill_ him."

"Scott-"

_"I'll fucking kill him!"_

I said nothing.

There was nothing I _could_ say.

What do you do, in that situation? What do you say? What can you _possibly_ say? Are there any words in existence that can fix it, that can make it in any way better? Is comfort even possible to give, when he's like this? Is it even worth trying?

There is nothing to do.

There is nothing to say.

I wrapped my arms around him and held him tightly as we both slowly sank to the ground. He didn't resist. He seemed to become limp in my grasp, unable to do anything but shake with tears.


	29. Chapter Twenty Nine

Ororo was considerably faster than me, a fact which would probably surprise absolutely no one. Maybe it was just a matter of her being simply more fit than me. Maybe it was her upbringing. Maybe it was partially due to the physicality of her powers, as opposed to the purely mental basis of my own. I mean, sure, she could create storms with just her mind alone, but if she wanted to actually _control_ the weather, she moved. She would almost dance, and the wind and the rain and the lightning would dance along with her.

And she was faster than me. Stronger than me. She'd urge me into a sprint which would end with her four hundred feet ahead of me as I struggled to catch up.

"Break!" I found myself gasping as I doubled over, panting and wheezing and struggling desperately for air. "I…demand…a break."

Ororo rolled her eyes dramatically like she always does when she thinks I'm being unfit on purpose.

"This will not be a very good distraction if you continue to stop," she pointed out, leaning against the trunk of a tree and watching me critically.

I shot her a distinctly unimpressed look.

"Five minutes," I insisted. "Or…maybe twenty. And for the record, when I asked you to distract me, I meant something more like, you know, ice cream and a movie. Not running circles around all of Westchester."

She folded her arms. "That would not be a good distraction."

"But feeling like my lungs are about to explode out of my chest is?"

She nodded, not bothering to explain herself any further than that. I don't suppose she needed to. We'd had this conversation before, just prior to setting out on this marathon in the first place. She'd said something about physical pain being the only worthwhile distraction and focusing on it and pushing through it was the best distraction she could think of. I hadn't really understood it then and I still don't understand it now.

I suppose it makes sense in her head. Somehow.

"Let's go," she said in a voice so commanding and full of authority I almost did exactly as she said.

Almost.

"Are you _kidding_ me?" I demanded. "I thought I was going to get a break?"

"You did."

I groaned loudly and practically fell on my ass, too exhausted to move. Ororo just stood there, watching me, waiting patiently for me to get up and go tearing off down the street at full pelt with her. I didn't.

"That was so _not_ five minutes. Shortest five goddamn minutes of my life."

"Jean."

"You know, Scott runs. Maybe you and him should do this together sometime."

She remained completely unmoved by my jab. "Perhaps we will, when he returns."

When he returns.

She seems so sure that he's coming back.

Everyone seems so sure that he'll walk through the front doors of the mansion like nothing ever happened sooner or later. No one seems the least bit concerned. They all think he's going to be fine.

Honestly, I don't think it's going to happen.

I don't think he'll ever be fine again.

_"If_ he returns," I corrected dully.

At my words, she let out a long sigh before sitting cross legged on the grass next to me. For what seemed like forever, neither of us said anything. We didn't talk, we didn't move. I just lay on the grass, staring up at the sky while she absently began to pull up blades of it.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, birds twittered as a pleasantly cool breeze wafted through the trees, rustling the leaves. Great weather for a bout of strenuous outdoor exercise, and Ororo obviously knew it. I closed my eyes and tried my best to block out the entire world. The grass, the sky, the birds, the trees and the gentle breeze. I blocked it all out, while straining my mind to focus on something else. To see and feel something entirely different.

"You want to talk about it."

My eyes snapped open at Ororo's voice. It wasn't a question, just an observation. I glanced up at her, only to see her bright, icy blue eyes staring down at me. Almost immediately, I looked away.

"I asked you to distract me, not get me to talk about it."

"But you _want_ to talk about it," she pressed. "So why don't you?"

I groaned and pushed myself up. "Because it's not _my_ problem."

What happened didn't happen to me. It's not _my_ memories. It's not _my_ pain. It isn't my hurt to keep. I shouldn't even know the things I do know. I shouldn't be part of this equation at all. And I am. And it kills me. Everything about what happened that day kills me. And the more I think about it, the worse it gets. So I don't want to think about it. Because I don't want it to get any worse than it already is. If that's even possible. I just don't want to risk it. So, distractions. It was a perfectly sound strategy that was working fine until now.

"If something affects you this much, it is very likely your problem," Ororo reasoned quietly. "If it affects us as a team, then it is the team's problem. And it has, so it is."

I groaned loudly and raked my fingers through my hair, getting increasingly stressed. "Have you…have you ever found out something that changed everything about how you see yourself?"

She pulled back slightly, not quite sure what to make of my question.

"…possibly," she murmured in a carefully guarded voice.

I nodded slowly, not bothering to say anything more. There was nothing more _to_ say. Not without completely betraying the trust of someone I really would rather not upset. I just wish Scott hadn't gone and done the most _Scott-ish_ thing imaginable and disappeared on me – on _all_ of us. It's not that I don't get why he left. I _totally_ get why he left. If something like that was suddenly sprung on me, I imagine I'd probably take off in order to be alone and find myself too.

I just wish he'd take the time to maybe assure his girlfriend that he hasn't died. Maybe then I wouldn't be tempted to abuse the link and try to invade his mind when he's who even knows where.

I groaned loudly and threw my hands up into the air. "Ugh, I don't even know. Scott just has issues."

"You speak as though this is not already a frequent occurrence."

_"Haha,"_ I drawled sarcastically. "It's more serious than that. And _so_ personal."

Her eyebrows rose slightly at my words. "And yet you know about it."

"It's not like he really had a choice," I muttered. "Me and him…we're close. And I'm a telepath. And he projects a lot. I get stuff. It happens. It's all totally normal."

She didn't believe that for a second. She didn't say anything, but I knew that she knew I was lying through my teeth. Slowly, I let out a long, exhausted sigh.

"We have…a link," I admitted finally.

"A link," she repeated, obviously not understanding.

"A telepathic link. A psychic connection. A mental bond. A psionic rapport. Whatever you want to call it. Stuff bleeds through whether we want it to or not. Thoughts, feelings, memories…all of it. There's no getting rid of it. No blocking it out. I mean, even now I can…feel him, I guess? Not anything coherent – he's too far away for that – but I know he's there."

That seemed to intrigue her. Her eyes went wide and suddenly she was staring at me like some exotic creature she'd never seen before.

"I have never heard of such a thing."

I shrugged. "Yeah, well. It happened by accident. But that's not the point. The _point _is; I know about Scott's deal because it bled through the link. But it's _his_ problem and I shouldn't talk about it behind his back. Because when he finds out – and he _will_ find out, the link goes both ways – he is probably going to on a violent murder spree."

And that's not something anyone wants. Ever. Because the ease with which Scott could go on such a rampage is actually terrifying. All he has to do is go to a crowded area and open his eyes. There. Destruction and mayhem, with almost no effort required.

_I'll kill him,_ Scott had mumbled to me, over and over again. That's all he managed to bring himself to say. Just those words. And the most disturbing part wasn't the words themselves. It was the fact that I knew he meant them.

_I'll kill him._

_I'll kill him._

_I'll fucking kill him!_

And it scares me because Scott is a good person. I know he wants to _be_ a good person. It terrifies me to know that people, no matter how good they strive to be, can snap so violently. And if that's true, then what's stopping it from happening? What's there to stop it from happening to _me?_

I haven't forgotten about what happened in the vault. I will never forget.

And it terrifies me, what I have the potential to become. What we _all_ have the potential to become. We're all monsters waiting to happen.

"So," I began, desperate to change the subject.

Ororo's eyes snapped up to mine. "So?"

"Warren's finally had enough of our shenanigans," I sighed, looking up at the sky.

She remained unconcerned. "This is not a surprise."

"No, I know – he's been on the verge of leaving for months now. It's just…finally happening."

"Are you upset?"

"No," I said quickly – too quickly. "I mean, I'm just…we have a good thing going, with the X-Men, and Warren's been there from the beginning. Him not being around anymore is going to change things."

"This is true."

"Hank's looking at moving on, too," I sighed. "And I doubt Bobby will stick around without him _or_ Warren."

And then what? It'll just be the three of us? What am I going to do? What do I want to do with the rest of my life? Should I be considering leaving and trying to make a life for myself too? Is that what I want? Is _this_ what I want? Am I satisfied if this becomes my life? What _else _am I supposed to do with myself? With my powers?

"And you?"

My head snapped up at her question. "What?"

"Do you plan to leave as well?"

I shook my head. "No. I like it here, and Scott's sort of invested. I wouldn't want to leave without him."

"Scott is not here."

"Fair point," I conceded. "But in any case, I don't think- …I'm not sure if it's safe for me to not be at the mansion. I'm not sure Professor Xavier will let me."

"This is not about anyone but you," she told me, her voice sharp and frank. "Do you _want_ to stay?"

I glanced away.

_Do_ I want to stay? I don't know. I want to help. I want to be a good person. I want to prove to myself and everyone around me that I can control it. I want to help people move forward into a better, more tolerant way of life. I want to change things. All admirable goals, Professor Xavier had told me once. I just don't know if staying here, being an X-Man, is how to achieve them. But I wouldn't know where to start if I left now.

I tried to leave once. Look how well that turned out.

Maybe I'm just scared. Maybe I'm so weird about this because it's forcing me to look to the future, which I never like thinking about. I need certainty in my life, and while the future is many things, certain is not one of them. I know I'd swap my telepathy for the power of prophecy, if I could.

I let out an agitated sigh and threw my hands up into the air. "Ugh, I don't know. I guess I'm scared it won't be the same. We won't be the same team."

"It will never be the same," Ororo told me matter-of-factly. "You can't alter the fundamentals of something and expect it to remain unchanged."

"That's really helpful, Ororo, thanks," I drawled, the sarcasm in my tone maybe a little too evident.

She didn't reply to that. Rather, she got to her feet and stared off in the direction of the Institute.

"Time to head back, I believe," she murmured, briefly glancing back at me, clearly expecting me to get up and run with her.

I stayed precisely where I was, still in no condition to go running. "You go on ahead. I'll catch up."

Her eyebrow rose slightly, but in the end, she didn't question it. She let out a small sigh and rolled her shoulders back before sprinting down the street at full pelt, very quickly disappearing from view.

I let out a small tired groan before pushing myself up to my feet. I probably shouldn't keep her waiting too long. The last thing anyone needs is someone else going out and seemingly disappearing for a solid twelve hours without explanation. Not again. I gritted my teeth at the thought. I'd really rather random disappearances not become commonplace.

"You know, your friend really is something," a completely unfamiliar voice told me in a cordial tone from somewhere behind me.

I let out a scream of surprise and whirled around, reaching out with my mind and telekinetically sending what turned out to be a boy who looked maybe a year or two older than me flying back until he hit the sidewalk. He let out a groan of pain and remained there as I stood rooted to the spot, not quite sure what to do. Not sure what to even make of the situation. I'd just impulsively attacked someone with my powers. I didn't even mean to. He just took me by surprise. He should know better than to sneak up on people like that.

Well, if he didn't know that before, he's going to know now.

Slowly, tentatively, I approached him, trying to see if he was okay. Hoping, praying to all the gods I knew of that he was okay and this wasn't going to end in a disastrously long and involved lawsuit.

"I…uh…sorry. Sorry about that," I murmured. "You startled me."

Please don't freak out and call the police, please don't freak out and call the police, _please don't freak out and call the police…_

He let out a breathless chuckle and forced himself up into a sitting position. _"Damn,_ Red, you pack a serious punch. Do you always attack first and ask questions later?"

And that…was totally not the reaction I was expecting. That was possibly the _exact opposite_ of the reaction I was expecting. For what seemed like forever, I just stared at him, lost for words. He didn't seem the least bit bothered by the fact that I'd just picked him up like a rag doll and thrown him to the ground with no effort on my part at all. Which is not how normal people would react to such a thing.

I pulled back in surprise. "You're…not bothered by me being a mutant."

Even people who say they're okay with the idea of mutants react badly when they find out that I am one. Hell, even _Scott _didn't take it all that well, when I told him.

I exhaled a little as I was suddenly filled with nostalgia at the memory. It feels so long ago. Another life. Another existence. Sometimes I look back on it and I wonder if it was real, if it really happened, or if it was all some elaborate dream. It's weird to consider that there was ever a time where Scott didn't know about my powers. That I didn't know about his. It doesn't even seem real at times.

So much has happened since then.

"Nah. I figured that's what you were from your friend."

"My friend?" I repeated blandly, before glancing off in the direction Ororo had gone.

"Not a lot of black girls around with that hair and those eyes," he pointed out as he staggered to his feet. "So, odds are she's probably a mutant. And, you know. Us mutants, we stick together. So I assumed. And look, I was right."

My head whipped back around to face him, my eyes widening in surprise. _"Us_ mutants?"

He smiled crookedly, before offering me his hand. "I'm Jason."

"…Jean," I replied, slowly taking it.

"Otherwise known as the illustrious Marvel Girl, I understand."

Once again, I pulled back. He held up his hands defensively, in some gesture that I suppose was meant to calm me, to show me that he was harmless. I tensed a little, not quite sure what to make of him. He didn't have the look of someone planning to blackmail me with this information. Still. I met him literally two minutes ago. I don't know anything about him, and with my telepathy all but gone thanks to Professor Xavier, I have no means of finding out anything about him. Who am I to guess his intentions?

"Come on. There are only so many pretty telekinetic redheads around. Give me _some_ credit."

My fists clenched and I didn't relax. "How much do you know about us?"

He shrugged, remaining entirely nonchalant about the entire thing. "Probably more than you'd like. I've been following the exploits of the mighty _X-Men_ for a while."

"Really," I said flatly, letting the suspicion in my tone come through loud and clear.

"Sure. That sentinel fight was really something, by the way. Never seen someone take one of those things out so easily. Damned impressive."

"If you'd really been paying attention, you'd know that wasn't me."

"No, that was the one with the energy beams. What do you call him…Cyclops?"

And he's just being candid with his information…_why?_

"You've done your research," I noted dryly.

_"You_ draw attention," he corrected. "Turns out fighting a sentinel in the middle of a street at noon will do that."

He _does_ have a point, Jean. None of your super-heroic exploits have been what you'd call _subtle._ That's what generally happens with super-heroics, after all. You're going to get noticed. How did you not see that coming?

I should've seen it coming.

Maybe I did.

I just never thought I'd get it from someone like him.

Jason leaned back a little, appraising me. "So you're…what, telekinetic? Nice."

"And more than capable of crushing your ribcage if you breathe a word about me or my friends to anyone," I pointed out.

"And how are you going to know if I do?"

I smiled crookedly and folded my arms. "I trust you know how hard it is to keep things from a telepath. And _trust me_ when I tell you that _should_ you cross me, should you try to _run_ – I will find you. There is nowhere on this entire goddamn planet you'll be able to hide."

He nodded slowly. "Fair point. Do they teach you how to do that? Be all scary and intimidating?"

My smile widened into a grin. "No. Turns out I just naturally excel at that."

He smiled too. _"Marvel Girl_ doesn't do you justice, by the way. Ever consider changing it?"

Everyday. But that's not of your business.

"If you've any suggestions, I'd _love_ to hear them," I told him, just a little scathingly.

He laughed and shook his head. "Ah, I'm no good at things like that. You're the super mutant here, not me."

Of course.

For much too long, we just stood there, carefully eyeing each other off. Or maybe I was eyeing him off because I was on the defensive. He seemed politely curious about me, if anything. I was just so used to being met with aggression at this point that I didn't have any other way to react. Old habits, probably.

"Well, don't let me keep you," he told me pleasantly before turning to go. "I'll see you round, Red."

For the longest time, I stayed exactly where I was, carefully watching his retreating back, not entirely sure what had just happened, exactly.

"See you round," I replied, once his figure had disappeared over the hill.


	30. Chapter Thirty

Bobby had probably eaten the equivalent to an entire pizza and a half as he went for maybe his twelfth slice. My eyes narrowed as I watched him lean across the table, hand outstretched, looking to snatch up whatever happened to be within reach. With a slight smile and a small telekinetic nudge, I moved them just out of his reach and then proceeded to watch him strain and struggle until he eventually gave up and opted to move around to the other side of the table. At which point the boxes immediately shot back to the other side.

He shot me a dirty look. "Cut it out, Jean."

"No, continue," Ororo told me as she grabbed a slice for herself. "He will take it all for himself otherwise."

"I have to eat all the anchovy-free pizza," Bobby told me, as if that justified him. "Anchovies are the devil. Don't trust them."

"So it's specifically anchovies now, and not seafood in general?" Hank asked casually.

"Have you ever _eaten_ anchovies, Hank? God. I'm gagging just thinking about it. Oily little salty fuckers."

Hank just shrugged, remaining entirely nonchalant. "Truth be told, I enjoy them."

"You're a sick, twisted bastard of a human being, Henry McCoy."

"Right. There are anti-mutant cults like the Purifiers out there and _Hank's_ the twisted bastard," Warren noted dryly. "Glad we cleared that up."

"Hey, I said he was a twisted bastard. I _never_ said he was the _worst_ of the twisted bastards. And in any case, that's not the _point."_

"Then what _is _the point, Bobby?"

Bobby stood up. "Well, Worthington, I'm glad you asked."

"What are you doing, popsicle?" Warren asked confusedly, arching an eyebrow.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm making a speech," came the reply. "A speech I actually made time and effort to prepare, so you'd better enjoy it and tell me I'm amazing and brilliant."

"Oh come _on,"_ I sighed. "Tell me you're kidding. You did not actually prepare a _speech."_

"He did, actually," Hank interjected. "He even asked for my opinion on it several times."

My eyebrows rose slightly, but I didn't say anything more. Warren glanced around briefly, trying to gage everyone's reaction before leaning back, armed folded, a small, amused smile pulling at his lips.

"Alright, Drake. Let's hear it."

"Dearly beloved," Bobby began in a faux serious tone. "We are gathered here today to commemorate the passing of-"

"He isn't _dead,"_ Ororo interrupted, frowning.

"What? You mean he's _not?_ Well damn, I wrote this great speech for nothing."

Warren, however, was trying to contain his laughter. "No, no. It's good. Keep going, Bobby."

That was all he needed. With a small smile, Bobby straightened and cleared his throat a little.

"Warren Worthington the Third-"

Right on cue, Warren let out a loud, tired, thoroughly exasperated groan at the sound of his full name. Bobby shot him a look of mock annoyance before ploughing on.

"-the _Third,_ who will be tragically taken from us in – wait a second, when are you leaving?"

Warren shrugged. "Don't know."

"You don't _know?"_ I questioned disbelievingly.

He glanced away. "It was going to be tomorrow, but…I just, don't want to leave until Scott gets back."

I stared at him in slight surprise, but no one took any note of it. I didn't think Warren would be so…sentimental, I guess. I mean, okay, they're really close and all of that. I just didn't think it mattered to him that much.

He's so sure Scott's coming back. Everyone is so sure he's coming back.

Bobby just nodded curtly and looked up at the ceiling as the mood went from flippant and playful to bizarrely solemn. Suddenly, we were losing one of our number and it was a gravely serious matter as we all sat around the table, each holding a slice of pizza as we waited for the rest of Bobby's commiseration speech.

"Who'll be taken from us shortly," he finished quietly, before returning his gaze to the subject of his speech. "We will remember him as a reluctant teammate who never wanted to get involved with anything and always argued that things that totally did absolutely affect us didn't affect us."

"…thanks, Bobby," Warren drawled. "Really heartfelt."

"I'm not _finished,_ you asshole. And we will remember that despite all of that, despite his constant arguments and misgivings, that he gave everything he had for this team and provided some pretty damn good aerial support. We will remember him as the one genuinely well adjusted, reasonably sane person in this mansion. And while you might think you never had a real impact on life here, Warren, know that by _god_ we'll notice your absence, and we'll miss you every day you're not here."

These words were followed by a resounding silence as none of us really knew what to do or what to say.

"So…keep in touch, okay?" Bobby added after a lengthy pause. "While you're not actively part of the team anymore, know that you'll always be an X-Man. If anyone says otherwise, you're fully within your right to punch them in their stupid face."

Warren just stared at him, apparently lost for words. I suppose I would be too, in his place. No one expected such an outpouring of affection.

"I- …thanks, Bobby."

Bobby Drake smiled slightly and nodded at him. "Once an X-Man, _always_ an X-Man."

This declaration was met largely with pensive silence.

"To the X-Men," Warren murmured after a pause, raising his pizza slice.

Immediately, we all did the same, no one bothering to note how stupid it must've looked. Suddenly, it was serious. It was a quiet, sullen moment as it suddenly occurred to us that nothing was going to be the same after this. It was never going to be the same.

"To the X-Men," we all repeated in unison.

Maybe it would've looked silly to an outsider, but it was a quiet moment as we all reflected on what our lives had become in the past few years, and we all seemed to contemplate what the next few years would have in store. Things would change, I knew that. I also knew that once they did, it would never be the same. But somehow, Bobby's speech made me consider the possibility that change isn't necessarily a bad thing.

"It's too bad Scott isn't here," Hank noted finally. "He's been gone for quite a while."

"You'd think he'd be over it by now," Bobby muttered, a distinct edge in his voice. "Whatever _'it'_ even is."

"Bobby," I called his name, trying to think of a way to explain Scott's absence without giving away anything I shouldn't.

I never got a chance, as Warren immediately cut me off.

"It's complicated," he said. "And not the point right now."

And just like that, the matter was dropped. I gazed wordlessly at Warren as he politely excused himself and swiftly exited the kitchen. For a moment I watched him go, before deciding that no, I couldn't drop it like everyone else and I promptly rushed after him.

It wasn't the most graceful exit, and I felt bad at leaving just after Bobby was the most heartfelt he's been in probably years, but I had a nagging curiosity I felt had to be addressed. And I didn't want Warren to be alone. Not now. Not today.

I burst into the entrance hall and immediately went for the stairs before a sudden gust of cold wind blew in from the open front doors, causing me to turn on my heels, looking for the reason they would be left ajar. Slowly, carefully, I approached, before spotted a mass of white feathers.

I was so used to finding Scott on the roof that I was about to go there out of sheer habit.

"Warren," I called his name softly.

He twisted around just enough to see me in his peripheral vision before looking back out at the horizon. Slowly, carefully, I made my way over to him, somewhat awkwardly sitting on the steps next to him while trying to carefully avoid getting hit in the face by his wings. He glanced at me once more, eyebrows raised, like he wasn't quite what to make of me. We…haven't really talked much lately. And by 'lately', I mean 'the last three years or so'. At first it was awkward post-breakup avoidance. Then it was in-a-new-relationship-and-it's-weird-because-he's-my-ex avoidance. After that it just became a habit.

For such a long time, we both just stood there, staring out mindlessly into the distance, neither of us really knowing what to say to the other.

"Scott told me about your, uh, _connection,"_ he said in a carefully guarded voice, eyeing me off apprehensively. "So I'm going to assume you know everything about whatever this Essex guy did to him."

I pulled back, blinking in surprise. Straight to the point, then.

"You…know about that?"

He nodded slowly. "He told me. Just before he took off."

"…oh."

"I think Scott just wants to act like it never happened," he continued. "But I can't do that. I can't pretend it's okay, because it's _not._ It's completely, absolutely, one hundred percent fucked up. I mean, what do you _say_ to something like that?"

I looked up at the sky, closing my eyes and just focusing on the feeling of the cool breeze on my face for a moment. I didn't have an answer. In fact, I'd been asking that question myself since everything happened. What do you do when something like that comes up? What do you say? Is it even worth trying at all, when you know that nothing you do _or_ say will fix anything, change any of what happened. Maybe the better course of action is to just not draw attention to it and hope for the best, but how can you not talk about it?

"I don't know," I replied after a brief pause.

"This is so messed up," he mumbled, shaking his head. "It's _so_ fucking messed up."

He's right, you know. It _is_ messed up. Everything about your life right now is messed up. Take a look at yourself for thirty seconds and tell me your life isn't one big massive pile fucking _messed up._ We're all so crazy and everything is so insane and I don't know how I cope sometimes. I don't know how anyone copes.

_I'm an experiment. That's it. That's all I am. I'm just his goddamn fucking experiment._

My hands clenched into tight fists as I remembered Scott's words, as I remember his anguish and confusion and fear as he found himself suddenly confronted with a terrible truth.

An experiment.

Just an experiment.

No.

I don't believe it. I _won't_ believe it.

Whatever happened to him, whatever that man _did, _Scott is _not _just an experiment. He's more than that. He's _so_ much more than the things he's been put through. He's a person, a _real person,_ who should not let himself be defined by what's been done to him. He's done more than anyone could have ever expected from him. _He's_ the one who pushed himself through his own fear. _He's_ the one who stayed calm when the sentinel attacked us. _He's_ the one who keeps us all grounded, who keeps us all alive.

Not an experiment.

Scott Summers.

A person. A leader. An X-Man. And in some ways, yes, a hero. A goddamn fucking _hero._

Not just an experiment._ Never_ just an experiment.

I know that. Of course I know that. I know who he really is. What he really is. I know that to be true with every single fibre of my being because that's the person I see. That's the person I fall in love with every single fucking day. Perfect? No. Not by a long shot. But what person on this good green earth _is?_

I know that. And so help me God, I will make sure Scott knows that too.

I glanced back at Warren, who seemed lost in thought, just like I had been. He didn't know what to say. I couldn't expect him to.

So I nudged him gently and changed the subject.

"So."

"So?"

"Where does the mighty Angel go from here?"

_"Angel_ doesn't go anywhere. Warren Worthington goes home and tells his parents to deal with his wings whether they like it or not and then he tries to go about having a semi-normal life."

I nodded. Warren sighed a little.

"And when that inevitably doesn't work…I'll work something else out. What about you? What's going to happen to Marvel Girl?"

"She'll find something better to call herself than _Marvel Girl,_ for a start," I said.

"Yeah? Like what?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Something powerful and symbolic. Something that just _sounds_ dangerous, you know? Fiery and violent."

"Fiery and violent, huh?" he repeated thoughtfully.

I nodded. "Like…like…_inferno,_ or something."

"Why fire? You're _telekinetic._ Your powers have nothing to do with fire."

I rolled my shoulders back and let out a long, drawn out sigh. "It's…a little complicated."

He laughed. "Just like everything else these days."

"Warren," I began slowly, hesitantly. "If you…could go _inside_ your mind, your own mind, where everything you can see, touch, everything you perceive around you is a representation of some part of yourself, what do you imagine it would look like?"

A burning, flooded mansion. A blaze burning out of control, wild, destructive and free, with nothing but the water to keep it at bay. Screaming as the door closes, the water rises, and the fire rages, engulfing me and burning me away until I'm nothing.

His eyes narrowed and he turned to look at me, a little confused. "What do you mean?"

"I've been there," I murmured. "I've seen myself, the very essence of my being in its purest form."

Fire flowing along my skin, burning away the flesh and leaving me with nothing, burning me away until I'm nothing, I'm nothing, _I'm nothing-_

The storm rages around me, surrounding me while I scream, I just _scream _and I'm _nothing_-

I am power.

I am limitless.

I am _everything._

Warren continued to watch me in silence, a look of grave concern plastered across his face. I pretended not to notice. I didn't really know why I was telling him this. Any of this. Perhaps I was doing it for practice, to prepare myself for when I inevitably have this conversation with Scott. Maybe I just wanted to talk about it, to tell someone what happened to me. What will keep happening to me. What I fear will always happen to me for as long as I live and breathe.

I groaned quietly and pulled my knees to my chest. I know what I am. And I know there's a reason the professor is so determined to keep me from it.

"You think I'm crazy," I noted quietly.

He shook his head. "I think we're _all_ crazy for getting involved in shit like in the first place."

"But you're worried about me. You want me to talk to the professor."

"You know people hate it when you do that."

"That's why I do it, though," I replied. "People don't _like_ powers. They don't _like_ mutants. So I'm being unapologetically a mutant. It's my own little _fuck you_ to the world."

He chuckled.

"What?"

"I can never tell what side you're on," he told me. "I can't tell if you like having your powers, or if you hate them, or if you're afraid of them."

I closed my eyes and sighed. "Honestly, Warren, neither can I. Maybe it's all three."

He hummed thoughtfully, still gazing out at the expansive grounds, as we fell into a somewhat awkward silence. Some things don't ever change, despite everything.

And then;

"Who is that?"

My head snapped up. "Who's what?"

Warren stood up, his wings flaring out in that weird way he subconsciously causes them to flare out when he feels a little threatened. I looked out across the grounds, trying to see whatever he was so concerned about. And then, sure enough, I spotted a figure trudging up the driveway.

"I don't believe it," I murmured, before standing up as well and striding down the driveway myself. "I don't _fucking believe it."_

"Jean?" Warren called, thoroughly confused.

"Scott. Fucking. _Summers,"_ I snarled. "Do you have _any_ idea-"

I was cut off as he reached me, his arm wrapping around my waist before he pressed his lips hungrily against mine. In that brief second, I completely melted, forgetting how or why I was even mad at him. Which I suppose was a very clever tactic on his part. Slowly, I pulled away, my eyes narrowing.

"I am going to leave you alone for five minutes," I told him quietly. "And then I'm going rip you a new one, do you understand?"

"Wouldn't expect anything less," came the reply.

"Seems like there's a bit of a line for that," Warren noted quietly. "It's good to see you."

Scott managed a small, wry smile and gave him the smallest of waves. "Hi. Sorry I'm late."


	31. Chapter Thirty One

Somehow, I took Scott's return as a sign that he was ready to talk about the mess that seemed to make up his entire life thus far. Somehow, I got it into my stupid head that he was slowly inching towards accepting the truth of what happened and so would be more open to talking to me about it. Maybe he had been, but that changed after Warren left the mansion, and by extension, the X-Men.

And honestly, I was fine if he didn't want to discuss it with me, just as long as he talked to _someone._ He clearly needed to unload some insane amount of pent up anger, pain and confusion, and everything else he was feeling about the whole ordeal of the past few weeks. But as time dragged on and he continued to throw himself into any and every available distraction at all times, I realised that he wasn't going to talk about it. To anyone. The only person he had been even close to talking about it with was already gone.

So he did what anyone would expect Scott to do. He opted to instead remain silent, repress his emotions, and focus entirely on being Cyclops, fearless leader of the X-Men. He didn't allow himself to be just Scott anymore. He had to be the hero, had to be the X-Man. He had to be perfect. He had to hide any and all signs of emotional damage. Maybe Scott Summers was broken, but that didn't mean Cyclops had to be too.

And I _hated_ it.

I hated all of it. I hated his reaction. I hated how typical it was. I hated the way he cast it all aside and refused to even try working through it. Most of all, I hated it because I'd seen it all before.

The plane crash.

Me leaving.

Me coming back.

His powers.

The X-Men.

His _powers._

It was always the same. It always ended the same way. He'd stop trying to feel, to drive himself into a state of such complete apathy that he becomes cold and logical, no longer caring about anything. He wouldn't work through it like a normal human being until someone repeatedly and insistently shoved him into it. All because he can't take one fucking _second_ to step back and admit the truth. That he was taken, beaten, abused, tortured and experimented on.

But he won't. Because god forbid he ever admit to being a victim.

I could feel a twinge of annoyance as my thoughts drifted through the link, but he didn't comment.

_Of course_ he wouldn't. He never says anything. I don't know why I expect anything else.

"For the love of everything, Scott, just fucking _say something."_

He didn't look up. "So we can have this fight again?"

"Again?" I repeated incredulously. "No, Scott, to have a fight again would mean having it in the first place."

He didn't reply, just focused his attention solely on his phone.

Dammit Scott, just emote. Just assure me that you can still do that.

"Oh come _on!"_

"What do you _want_ from me, Jean?" he snarled.

"I _want_ you to stop pretending nothing's wrong," I snapped back. "I _want_ you to accept reality!"

At my words, Scott bolted upright in surprise, glancing around the room as if he was searching something, paying no real attention to me. My hands clenched into tight fists and I gritted my teeth furiously.

"Are you even _listening_ to me?!"

"Stop."

_"What?"_

"Jean," he called my name, looking worried now. _"Stop."_

"How about _you_ shut the hell up and actually _listen _to me for once in your god forsaken life?"

_"Jean."_

"Oh my god, Scott Summers, if you don't shut up…"

"Jean Grey. Stop. Using. Your. _Powers,"_ he hissed, carefully framing each word, like he thought I was a total idiot that would somehow misinterpret his words.

For such a long time, I gaped at him, completely at a loss. "My…what?"

It was at that point I noticed that I was hovering a few inches off the floor, and that the entire room and everything in it was shaking violently. My eyes widened in shock as I realised what I was doing, though I didn't understand how I was doing it. Professor Xavier repressed more of my powers not too long ago. They shouldn't be reacting this strongly – not so soon after doing that. This doesn't make sense. This doesn't make any sense.

Why is it doing this?

Why am _I_ doing this?

I shouldn't be doing this.

I _can't_ be doing this.

The furniture trembled, and cracks began to appear in the windows, too fast for me to do anything about it. My hands began to tremble and it seemed like the entire mansion was doing exactly the same.

Calm down.

Just calm down.

I- …it shouldn't be doing this. It shouldn't be reacting like this. It shouldn't be this much of a problem.

Why is this happening to me? Why is it happening to me _now?_

"Jean."

Calm down. Rein it in. Control it.

I can't control it.

What's _wrong_ with me?

I can't stop it.

There's a part of me that never wants to stop.

In that moment, there was a loud _crack_ and a rush of wind as the seemingly every window in the mansion suddenly blew out, sending shards of broken glass flying everywhere. Scott whirled around as shattered glass flew towards us, before it all froze in place, hanging motionless in mid-air. Slowly, he turned back around to face me, looking more confused and shocked than ever before.

I exhaled slowly, quietly, and lowered my hand, which I'd raised in some attempt to save us both from getting shot full of glass. For a moment, there was nothing.

_"Jean…"_

His voice was low, hoarse, and maybe just a little afraid. I pulled back slightly, and the glass that had been hanging motionlessly in the air immediately fell straight to the ground around us.

"I- …I…" I stammered as I staggered backwards, trying to get away from it. From all of it.

I was getting better.

I was fine.

I was _supposed_ to be _fine!_

"Oh god," I murmured hoarsely, looking on in horror at what I'd managed to do without even meaning to. "Oh, _god."_

"Jean," Scott called my name one more time, slowly approaching me with his hands up as a non-threatening gesture, trying to calm me down. "It's okay."

I shook my head violently and pulled back.

It's not okay.

I'm not okay.

I will never be okay.

"N-no," I mumbled. "Don't…"

He kept moving towards me, slowly, carefully, in the way one would approach some wild thing. Is that what I am to him? A wounded animal, lashing out, but in need of help? Is that what I am to them? To everyone? Is that what people see when they look at me? Is that what Professor Xavier sees?

"Don't _touch_ me!" I found myself screaming at him, before I turned heel and ran.

There was nothing else I could do.

I ran.

Out the front doors, down the steps, across the grounds, to the trees on the other side of the lake.

I didn't have to hear him call my name desperately to know that he immediately gave chase. I didn't have be inside his mind to feel the worry, concern and fear – oh god, the _fear_ – he felt for me. Not for himself. For _me._ It's always for me.

He cares too much.

For someone who represses so much of his emotions, he cares _way_ too much.

I kept running.

Because I can't keep doing this. I can't be here; can't be around people I care about when this keeps happening, beyond my control. Always whether I like it or not. Just when I think I'm starting to make progress, something like this happens to prove me wrong. To show me that I'm still at the mercy of my own abilities. That one day, they're going to overwhelm me and there's nothing I can do about it.

And I can't be around people anymore. Not when I'm always so close to hurting them.

"Jean, for love of god, _stop!"_ I heard Scott yell from somewhere behind me.

_"Leave me alone!"_ I screeched, whirling around to face him, and my hand flying out.

Immediately, he was thrown backwards until he hit the trunk of a nearby tree. I heard the _crack_ as his back hit the bark with brutal force, and his subsequent cry of pain. I'm sure it hurt. In that moment, I didn't care. I didn't care about anything. I just had to be alone. I had to get away from people, from everyone. I held him there. For so long, I pinned him there, staring mindlessly at him, a million thoughts flying through my head, all so quickly nothing seemed to register.

"Gah…Jean…stop," he eventually managed to force out after too long.

I blinked several times, only now just realising what I was doing. Appalled at myself, at my powers, at how I'd managed to do that without even really realising, I pulled back. Scott, now free of my telekinetic hold slid roughly to the ground, gasping desperately for air. For a moment, neither of us moved, neither of us said anything. For a moment, just a moment that seemed like an eternity in and of itself, there was nothing but the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze, and the faint twitter of birdsong. In that moment, nothing else seemed to exist.

And then I burst into tears.

"God. Oh god. Shit. Fuck. _Shit."_

I sobbed and wailed and swore as tears streamed down my cheeks and my mind reeled over everything that had happened in the last five minutes. I don't know what I did. I don't know how I did it. I was supposed to beyond this. I'm not supposed to just go out of control like that.

I can't believe I did that.

I can't believe this is happening.

This can't be happening.

It can't be fluctuating this quickly.

God.

Please, God.

Make it stop.

Help me.

Suddenly, a hand gripped mine. I whirled around, flaring and ready to attack again before I saw Scott there, watching me carefully. He looked wrecked – and I suppose he would be, after I just attacked him like that. He didn't seem to care. All his thoughts were concerned about me.

What if it gets worse? How long until that happens? How long until I snap and actually hurt someone? More than I already have? Have I already crossed that line? Am I already beyond the point of helping?

I could his mental presence flinch away as my panic continued to bleed through the link, but out in the real world, he barely reacted, if at all. He should react. To _something._ If not my freak out, then he should at least acknowledge the pain he was in. The pain I'd inflicted on him. The pain I could feel just as much as he could.

It was only now I was beginning to realise the extent of what the link had done to us. I knew we shared thoughts, emotions. But it wasn't just that. It was _everything._ Pain was part of that deal. If one of us hurt, we both hurt. We're two different people who can't be separated. Two different people, trapped in the mind of the other. Bound together by a power beyond understanding.

God.

It's my fault.

It's all my fault.

I can't control myself. I can't even stop myself from hurting the people closest to me.

"You're okay," he murmured reassuringly. "It's okay."

"It's not okay!" I snarled, tearing myself away from him. "It's _not_ okay! I can't stop this from happening! I can't do _anything_ about it! It's just going to keep…it's growing, Scott. It's getting more powerful every day and I can't control it anymore."

I'll kill them.

I'll kill them all.

"What, and you think I don't know how that _feels?"_ he all but screamed at me. "For fuck's sake, Jean – _look_ at me! I'm the fucking _poster boy_ for out of control powers!"

He turned away from me, looking out over the lake before practically falling on the grass. For such a long time, neither of us said anything. There was nothing _to_ say to that.

Because he was right. It had happened all before.

He didn't have to be inside my head to know what I was going through.

My breath hitched in my throat and I let out a quiet, entirely pathetic sounding sob as I slowly lay down on the grass next to him. I didn't know what else to do. There was nothing to do. Everything I'd done so far had only made it worse. So I just curled up on the grass and cried, wishing it wasn't so goddamn hard all the time. Wishing I wasn't as absolutely useless as I was. Wishing that Annie had never been hit by that car. Wishing that I hadn't unknowingly tried to use newly manifested telepathy to bring her back. Wishing I hadn't died with her, and been sent spiralling into a catatonic state. Wishing I hadn't abandoned my family and the life I'd led up to that point. Wishing I was normal, that we were all normal, that none of this ever happened.

Because it's hard.

It's just too fucking _hard._

"You're not the only one," Scott murmured, pulling his knees to his chest. "I know that's how it feels a lot of the time, but it's not _true."_

I closed my eyes and exhaled, trying to calm myself a little. We may as well have been back in the alley where I found Scott all that time ago. Only difference is now it's me freaking out.

I don't know what's going on. I don't know what's happening to me.

"I'm scared," I managed after what seemed like an eternity. "Oh god. I'm _so_ scared."

"I know," he said quietly, turning his head just enough to face me. "But if there's one thing this place has taught me, it's that you don't have to be alone."

I don't have to be alone.

I don't have to face this by myself. It's okay to ask for help. It's okay to _need_ help.

I suppose he would've learned that by now, after everything he went through immediately before and after getting here who even knows how long ago now. It seemed like such a simple thing, a lesson he would have to learn, because he's always been weird and asocial. I never even considered the possibility that maybe it would apply to me as well.

But he's right. Of course he's right. He's always right.

The corners of my lips twitched as a small, sad smile played upon my lips, and I reached out to take his hand. To make a small, silent gesture that I understood and appreciated his advice. To let him know that his words helped me.

The instant my hand so much as grazed against his, however, he flinched away, going so far as to shift further from me. For the briefest moment, there was a flash of something, an image of a sickly pale hand; but it was gone as soon as it came. For too long, I just stared at him, unsure what any of that even was.

It's odd how we can have this link and I still manage to not understand a single thing about how his mind works.

"…Scott? What was that?"

He didn't answer, just recoiled a little more. Slowly, I reached out to touch him again, worried now. He shook his head and leaned away.

_"Don't,"_ he managed in a strangled voice. "Don't."

My eyes widened incredulously. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I'm fine."

_"Scott."_

He shivered and glanced away, saying nothing.

"Scott, talk to me," I urged quietly. "Please."

Gradually, he leaned back on the grass, letting out a huge, exhausted sigh. "You have your own problems. You don't need my bullshit too."

"My problems that you just told me I don't have to handle on my own," I reminded him. "And besides, thanks to the link, I get your bullshit regardless."

I could feel his mind steel at that, not that it did anything to disrupt the link. If it weren't for our…special circumstances, trying to force my way into his mind would've been something of a challenge. It was a conditioned reaction. I used to think it was just a quirk, some strange side effect of his apprehension regarding telepathy. Now I know better. Now I know he's had practice at trying to defend himself from a telepathic onslaught.

And the more I think about it, the more ashamed I feel for not seeing it before.

"It's not your fault," Scott told me, his voice low and barely audible. "I thought if I came back here, it wouldn't matter so much. I thought I'd stop thinking about it. I thought things would go back to the way they were before."

But they didn't. They wouldn't. We both know that now. Too many things have changed, and nothing will ever be the same. We don't even have the old team anymore. Warren's departure has changed the dynamic of the group, of how we all interact with each other.

Bobby had been right, in his speech. Warren might've thought he never really made a difference, but now that he's gone, it's impossible not to see the impact he had on all of us.

Ororo did say that you can't change the fundamentals of something and expect it to remain the same. It's sort of amazing, really, how she can state the blatantly obvious and yet I'm still somehow surprised when she turns out to be right.

Scott sighed quietly, mindlessly pulling up blades of grass. "I just…I can't do this. Everything reminds me of him."

His voice was cracked and hoarse as he struggled to hold himself together. Honestly, I couldn't understand how he got even this far without completely breaking down.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

He bit his lip and looked away. "You don't want to hear it."

"I'd rather hear it now than see it when it inevitably bleeds through the link," I pointed out.

A pause.

"Touché," he eventually conceded. "It's just, hard to explain. I try not to think about it, but I _can't. _It's like everything I do drags me back there."

He was carefully avoiding it. Carefully avoiding letting himself remember anything specific, out of fear I'd see something. Or anything. His mind steeled once again as he struggled to grapple with his memories while simultaneously not letting me see it. I couldn't tell if his determination to keep it hidden for out of concern for me, or himself. I didn't know if he was trying not to upset me, or if the thought of me seeing it would upset _him._ It was impossible to tell.

Maybe it was both.

But I did see it. I'd seen it all before, a long time ago. Seen it in a nightmare that was not mine. A nightmare Scott didn't remember. Not because I woke him, which was what I assumed at the time. It was because there was something in place in his mind that wouldn't _let_ him remember. That never let him remember, until Professor Xavier removed it.

"I wish I didn't know," Scott mumbled, bringing me back into reality. "I don't _want_ to know. I don't want to remember."

My head snapped up at his words.

"Scott, you _have_ to remember," I told him, maybe a little too sharply. "You owe it to yourself."

"Everything was easier before."

"Easier, yes," I said flatly. "But that doesn't mean better."

"Hard to call this better," he groaned. "I need to be who I was a month ago. But I can't be that person anymore."

"You don't _have_ to be that person anymore," I told him gently. "You don't _have_ to act like nothing has changed. No one is asking that of you."

"I- I just…I hate it. I hate _him._ And I hate the fact that I depend on him," he snarled, reaching up and tearing off his glasses, exposing his eyes, which were of course clenched shut. "He made these stupid things and I need them to see and I _hate_ wearing them. I hate the fact that I have to."

There was so much anger and pain in his voice, colouring his mind, bleeding through the link. It was hard to focus on anything else. He was in so much pain; I could feel it. And it killed me.

Between everything that's happened in the past few years – his powers manifesting the way they did, the general trauma that comes along with super heroics, the depression, the anxiety he felt over it all – it seems like Scott can never catch a break.

And now there's this.

One more thing to add to the pile. One more horrific experience Scott was put through, and has been forced to live with. One more insane, messed up thing that would completely destroy a person. How he still manages to cling to any semblance of sanity, I'll never know.

"I keep thinking, maybe, if I get rid of these, get Hank to make me a new pair, it'll change," he said, rambling now. "But it won't, will it? He's the one who found out about ruby quartz in the first place. I wouldn't _have_ the visor, or my sight at all without him, and there's nothing I can do about it."

I shook my head. "You're wrong."

"What?"

"You don't depend on him," I said firmly, while reaching out and gently tugging the glasses from his hand. "And you don't need him to see."

"Opening my eyes without them isn't a great alternative."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not talking about opening your eyes, Scott. There are other ways to see."

"What are you-?"

"Focus."

"On _what?"_

"On me," I answered. "On the part of you that's connected to me."

"I'm not a telepath, Jean."

"You don't _need_ to be a telepath," I insisted. "You just need to concentrate."

There was a pause.

Then he gasped loudly and immediately clutched his head in pain.

"Scott?" I called his name, frightened.

"Fine!" he gasped. "I'm fine. I just…I don't know. I don't know what that was."

"You panicked," I said. "And your mind snapped back. But you saw something, didn't you?"

"A flash," he admitted. "Something…I don't know."

"Trees," I answered. "Trees and grass. You saw what I see."

"…huh."

"What?"

"Green," he answered a little shakily. "I haven't- …I'd forgotten what it looks like."

I looked away, not wanting him to see how sad that sentence made me. How long has it been since he's looked at the world without a crimson filter over it? How long has it been since that insane day, when I found him cowering in the alley? It seems so long ago now. Another life, with a different Scott, and a different Jean. It's hard to consider anyone could forget a colour. But I suppose if I had been blinded to every colour except red for the past three or so years, I would've forgotten what green looks like too.

Still. It seems a sad way to be.

"We'll have to keep practising," I mused.

"Why are you so keen to do this?"

"Because you _don't_ depend on him," I said flatly. "For _anything._ Because there is a part of you that he hasn't touched. Because you're _not_ his experiment; you never _were."_

I'll prove it to you.

"Jean, I-"

"And it's like you said," I continued. "You're not the only one. And you don't have to be alone."


	32. Chapter Thirty Two

I didn't tell Professor Xavier about what happened. I knew I probably should, given everything, but I didn't. I knew what his reaction would be. I knew what he would do in an attempt to control my powers – and by extension, _me. _I knew what I doubted the professor could bring himself to admit; that I was beyond his help. Perhaps I was beyond anyone's help.

I exhaled quietly as the thought crossed my mind.

"You're not the only one," I chanted to myself. "You don't have to be alone."

Remember that.

Those words had become something of a mantra lately. Something to remind me of who I am. Of what I have. Of the people around me. That I'm not a complete lost cause – not yet. It was a way to refocus myself, something I didn't have before. Something that made it easier to cope with it all as my entire world seemed to spiral out of control, hurtling towards oblivion.

Damn Scott and his words. I wouldn't be surprised if he used much the same technique to keep himself grounded and focused all the time. They were good words. Something I could use for security so I wasn't always cuddled up next to my boyfriend on the verge of tears. I wouldn't give him any space otherwise. God knows I'd barely left his side for the past few days. I couldn't bring myself to. I couldn't handle being alone – which was pretty inconvenient, really, considering that he's wanted only to be left alone since returning to the mansion.

So this was me. Leaving him alone.

And trying not to have a panic attack.

Which would end badly.

For reasons.

Besides, wandering around the local mall, browsing through shops? It's a relaxing activity. I'm also surrounded by people who don't know me. Alone, without actually being alone.

I shouldn't feel this anxious.

I should've asked Ororo to come with me.

A hand appeared on the clothing rack I was browsing. "So, tell me. Is there a secret terror plot involving clothes I don't know about?"

I didn't look up. "Jason."

"Red," he greeted me cordially, turning around and gazing aimlessly at the rest of the store. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Can't be _that_ out of the ordinary," I murmured, still not looking at him. "People go shopping."

"Yeah, but the great and terrible Marvel Girl isn't exactly _people,_ is she?" he said casually. "Those X-Men, they've been a bit reclusive lately."

I shrugged innocently. "Blame it on the current shortage of world threatening super villains."

"A crying shame, that," he said with a wistful sigh. "I'm sure you could find some if you looked hard enough."

"Mutant terrorists aren't subtle," I pointed out dryly. "That's the thing about elaborate world dominations plans; they're difficult to hide."

"Branch out?"

I sighed quietly. "Ah, but we can't. It gets too political otherwise. People will use our actions to justify oppressing mutants further. We're just _violent vigilantes attacking innocents without cause,_ and everything."

He paused to think about it. For a moment, I expected him to argue, but he didn't say anything. So instead, I elected to plough on.

"They tolerate us because they know we're really the only ones who can stop the Magnetos of this world," I continued. "The second we try to take on anyone else, we'll be _outside our jurisdiction_ and _too volatile _and what have you. Prof- …my mentor spent weeks trying to smooth things over with the government after we destroyed the sentinel that attacked us a couple of years ago."

Two years ago.

I can't believe that was _two years ago._

The entire experience was burned into my mind to the point I'm not sure I'll ever forget it.

"We handle the threats they can't," I said when Jason still said nothing in reply. "Mutants take down mutants, that's okay. Anything else? Recipe for a civil war, right there."

"And you agree with that?"

"I agree that a civil war between humans and mutants would be _bad,_ yeah."

"So you're a politically motived strike force that doesn't act because things get too political for you," he summed up. "A team of mutants that protects humans _from_ mutants, even though _they're_ the ones trying to kill_ us."_

My jaw tightened at his words. "It's not that _simple,_ Jason."

"Sure."

I could feel the disbelief that coloured his thoughts. I could see that he wanted to say more, to argue about it more, but he didn't want to anger or alienate me. I could hear him mulling over everything. I knew what he was thinking. I knew every stray thought that passed through his mind. That I didn't know him. That my life had been one of luxury and privilege. That I couldn't possibly understand _real_ hardship, as according to him, I'd never been through it.

I let out a sharp exhale and pulled away from the clothing rack, finally turning around to face him. "Okay, _stop."_

"Stop what?"

"Stop thinking I don't understand. Stop thinking that I don't know what _real_ mutants go through," I told him. "I know, okay? I _know."_

He just watched me, waiting for me to do something to prove it. I pinched the bridge of my nose, exasperated now.

"Your name is Jason Wyngarde," I told him dully. "You're nineteen years old. Your parents have always been vocal in their fear of mutants, and you never had the heart to tell them that you were one yourself. Because of that, you left home when you were fifteen."

His eyes widened a little, and I folded my arms, still scanning his thoughts and memories, only to feel increasingly bad about everything as each second dragged on for what seemed like forever.

Jason ran from uncertainty. He ran until he found somewhere he felt he actually belonged; a group of mutant runaways, like him.

Like Bobby. Like Warren. Like Hank, Ororo and Scott. Like me.

Sometimes it's easy to forget that we're the lucky ones. We're the ones Professor Xavier managed to get to in time. We're the ones who were given safety and the guidance to help us learn our respective powers. We're the precious few for which being mutant is only a slight inconvenience.

That's life, I guess. It could be worse. It can _always_ be worse.

"I know why you're angry," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you saw it. And I'm sorry we weren't there to stop it."

At my words, Jason looked away. "Not your fault."

You'd be surprised just how many things manage to be my fault.

"Did you know him?" I asked gently.

"Not well," he admitted. "Only met him once or twice beforehand. He was new to the whole _vagabond mutant_ thing. We had a bunch of new people. We were meeting up to try and find places for everyone to stay when…"

He trailed off into silence, growing distant.

"When the sentinel found you," I finished for him, trying to ignore the shame that bubbled up inside me. The shame over not being there. The shame of not stopping it, like we should have. We were supposed to stop this kind of thing. We were supposed to be there to protect mutants from the hatred and bigotry directed at them.

We weren't there. Not for the people who need us most.

No wonder he wishes we could do more. I do too. But there's precious little room to move. Not enough of anything to allow change. The least we can do is offer a safe haven, and most of the time, people don't know enough about us to actually seek us out.

No one ever said being a force for good was easy. No one ever said it was obvious where the line between good and evil is drawn. How far can you go before you turn from a hero to well-intentioned extremist?

"You know…" I began, somewhat awkwardly, "you could come to the Institute. You'd be welcome."

The corners of his lips twitched as the smallest of smiles played upon his lips. "Not really my thing, Red. But thanks anyway."

"Are you sure? It can't be easy on your own."

He gave a nonchalant shrug. "It's not so hard."

"You never get any grief for being a mutant?"

Again, he shrugged. "People see what you let them see."

My brow creased slightly in confusion over his reply, but I didn't press it. I knew I wasn't going to get any more of a coherent answer. Not today. Maybe not ever. The offer was there. It was his choice whether or not to take it. There's nothing more I can do.

That seems to be the way with everything these days. Look at all these problems you desperately want to fix. Too bad you can't do anything about them. Have fun with the ensuing guilt trip. I wonder if that's going to change. If it will ever stand a chance at changing.

I have ninety-nine problems and mutants are all of them.

"So," Jason began smoothly, with none of the awkwardness I'd come to expect from these kinds of conversations.

Clearly, I've spent too much time with Scott. So much time that I'd managed to forget that not everyone in the world is an endearing awkward nerd like he is.

He…is not going to appreciate me thinking that of him.

Endearing awkward nerd isn't necessarily a bad thing.

You hear me, Scott? It's _not_ _an insult._

It was at that point I remembered that someone was talking to me in the real world and my reply had been delayed for just long enough for it to get a little uncomfortable. Quickly, I forced myself to re-engage with reality.

"So?" I questioned, my eyebrows rising slightly.

He pushed his hair out of his face and casually looked me up and down. "What brings you out here on your lonesome?"

I paused for moment, considering my answer. On one hand, I could do the normal thing – the smart thing – and carefully deflect his question while putting on an air nonchalance. On the other, I could _not_ do that, and talk about all the things I desperately want to talk about, but haven't been able to. Not to Scott. Not to Bobby, or Hank, or even Ororo.

But Jason? He was a third party. I could trust him, at least a little. Maybe not with everything, but with some things. Just the minor things. Inconsequential things that aren't going to matter to him or affect his life in anyway.

"Honestly? I'm…avoiding my boyfriend."

His eyebrows a little at that. "Bad fight, huh?"

I shook my head. "No, nothing like that. He just…has issues. Things he needs to work through. On his own. Without me being all weird and clingy with him. I'm trying to give him space."

Jason gave me an odd look before returning his gaze to the clothing rack in front of us. "Sounds complicated."

"You have _no idea."_

He sighed and shook his head. "Dammit Red, now I'm curious."

That brought a smile to my lips. "Isn't that always the way?"

"Stop talking like that. You're making me really want to ask."

Part of me seriously considered stringing him along a little more, but ultimately, I decided against it. Jason is one of maybe two or three somewhat sane casual acquaintances. Alienating him would be a bad idea. Friends who aren't completely, royally messed up are scarce these days.

Yes, he's not the picture of stability, but at least he's not a Kenyan weather goddess or an obsessive compulsive mad genius or a seventeen-year-old living icicle or the heir of a ridiculously wealthy family who has a long and bloody history of self-harm _or_ you know, Scott and all his crazy.

It's not a high bar.

"I also happen to enjoy shopping," I added, in some vague attempt to change the subject.

He chuckled at that. "For someone who beats people up for a living, you're very girly."

"I don't _beat people up,"_ I argued, indignant.

"I saw the footage of your last scrap. You threw a man against a building."

"Still doing your research, obviously."

"It was on the news."

"Well, colour me surprised. You don't strike me as an avid news watcher."

His smile widened into a grin. "I'm full of surprises, Marvel Girl. Just you wait."


	33. Chapter Thirty Three

By the time I hit my twenties, the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters was finally beginning to actually feel like a real school. Maybe it was the fact that we had something like thirty kids running around. Or maybe it was because Professor Xavier had somehow managed to coax me, Scott, Hank, Bobby, and Ororo into trying to help him teach classes.

Suddenly the mansion seemed less like a huge, largely empty estate and more like a boarding school. A boarding school for mutants. That I was trying to teach at. And as it happens, teaching is not something that comes naturally to me.

If someone had asked me where I saw myself in five years when I was fifteen, I doubt my answer would've been 'part of the sort-of faculty at a boarding school for mutants'.

"Ellie, you were supposed to be downstairs half an hour ago," I told a quiet girl with dark hair that had been cropped short, who was leaning in the doorway of her bedroom and focused solely on her phone; failing to acknowledge my presence at all, beyond a small quirk of her eyebrow.

I suppose I should be happy I got even that much of a response.

No one tells you how hard it is to rein in thirty something teenagers when you're still yet to earn their respect.

God. Was _I_ this much of an asshole when _I_ was fifteen? I felt a sudden surge of respect for Professor Xavier at the thought.

"I- Hisako! No powers in the hall!" I had to stop myself from outright screaming when I noticed the faint glow of her psionic armour in my peripheral vision.

With a mildly sheepish look upon getting caught, Hisako dissolved her armour before grabbing her friend Ruth by the hand before the two quickly disappeared into back into their shared bedroom. For a moment, I watched them go, before returning my attention to Ellie, who remained exactly where she was, still staring down at her phone. With a small sigh, I leaned against the wall, trying to calm myself.

"Ellie," I called her name, practically imploring her not to do this to me.

With a small, sharp sigh and a dramatic roll of her eyes, she pocketed her phone and skulked past me. Hopefully that means she'll eventually end up where she's supposed to go.

"Ugh, I'm late!" a girl I recognised as Sofia shouted, emerging from her own bedroom looking flustered. She paused for a second, before leaning back through the doorway only to reappear, this time dragging a pale blonde girl with her.

"Come _on_ Laurie," she urged her roommate, who remained silent. "Where are David and Kevin? Fuck, we're _so late!"_

The two skirted around me with vague murmurings of _sorry, Miss Grey_ before disappearing down that hall.

And then I was alone in a deserted hallway again.

Despite the chaos of it all, I like the way it's all worked out. I feel like this is the way it's supposed to be. This is the dream Professor Xavier has worked tirelessly for most of his life to achieve. I feel proud to be part of that dream. Even if I am a god awful sort-of-an-assistant teacher.

We're not _real_ teachers, of course. None of us, save for maybe Hank, are properly qualified. Honestly, we're only a few years older than the students. We're just the people who have been here for the longest and are in the best position to be doing something useful, like helping the wheelchair-bound man control all these rowdy mutant teens. Even though I have no idea where to start doing that. I don't know how the others do it. And I _really_ don't know how _Scott,_ of all people, manages to be better at it than me.

This is usually the part where he senses my souring mood and sends me encouraging thoughts that tell me to give myself more credit.

…no?

Nothing?

He must be _really_ focused on whatever he's trying to do.

Of course, it's not just teenagers we're picking up these days.

"You lost, Jeannie?"

I turned on my heels to finds Logan standing there, casually leaning against the wall, arms folded and an eyebrows raised questioningly.

Ah, Logan.

Where do I even start trying to explain Logan?

He was a Canadian amnesiac with a pretty impressive healing factor and some small anger management issues. What he lacked in height he made up for with outright brawn. He was loud and abrasive, he seemed to make life more interesting and fun just by being around. He was a heavy drinker and routinely smoked cigars, much to both Scott's _and_ the professor's chagrin. He'd been particularly vocal in his disbelief and disregard of what the Institute, and by extension the X-Men, are trying to achieve – and yet, he'd joined up with us regardless.

And I liked him. I liked him a whole lot more than I ever thought I would, back when he managed to wind up here through a series of odd circumstances. He had this rugged charm no one else seemed to.

I shrugged innocently. "Forgot what I was doing. Must have too much time on my hands."

Logan smiled, drawing slightly closer. "I could think of one or two things to occupy you."

The corners of my lips twitched as a small, sly smile played upon them. Casually, I reached up and flicked some of his hair out of his face.

"Maybe-"

"Jean," a new voice called.

I pulled away from Logan slightly and glanced up to find Ororo striding towards us, tall and proud and seemingly the embodiment of raw power like always. Out of all us, she had the easiest time getting the kids to listen to her, which surprised absolutely no one. Everything about her commanded respect. She was just like that. She'd always been like that. I wish I could be like that.

She'd scoff at me for thinking I'm inferior to her in any way, but I can't help it. She's just so good at everything I'm not.

"Have you seen Hank?" she asked as she approached.

I blinked several times. "Hank? I- uh, no. I haven't."

"He was in the hangar with Cyke, last I saw," Logan offered. "Why?"

Ororo folded her arms. "There is a class he should be teaching."

Of course there is. This is so typical of Hank. He starts working on something, and gets so engrossed in it that he becomes completely unaware of the passing time and any commitments he has.

"I'll go get him," I volunteered, nodding at Logan before turning heel and heading straight for the nearest elevator.

Almost immediately, Ororo fell in step behind me, slipping into the elevator seconds before the doors slid shut. I turned around to face her, not quite sure why she'd made a point of following me.

"Does Hank need two people to fetch him?" I asked her dryly.

She barely reacted. "You are fetching Hank. I am going to the Danger Room."

"Oh. Training for you, or the students?"

The corners of her lips quirked. "A group believe they are ready for it. I am to supervise."

"And prove them spectacularly wrong in the process, I bet."

She shrugged innocently. "Perhaps. Though they may have an accurate grasp of what they are able to handle."

"You don't believe that," I observed.

Her lips cracked into a wicked grin. "No. I don't. _I_ believe they are overconfident."

"And must be beaten into submission."

"Reality will set in one way or another."

"What if they surprise you?"

"Then I will be _very _surprised."

Ororo Munroe is like this really cool, really powerful, really well liked sadistic gym teacher. Somehow she can be all of them at once, though I have no idea how. Maybe they like her because she treats them like adults or something similar.

At least if I get dragged into the infirmary later this afternoon because there are too many people for Hank alone to handle and I'm the only other person who's taken a first aid course, I'll know exactly who to blame.

I winced at the idea. "Please tell me Josh Foley isn't part of this group."

Ororo smirked. "He is not. Fortunate. His skills may be needed later."

Okay. So she's set on torturing teenagers. That's good. That's _great._ All I can do is help clean up the inevitable mess and hope no one develops a crippling fear of the Danger Room.

I suppose it's can't be _too_ bad. If she really wanted to traumatise the students, she'd drag Scott along and have him methodically pick out absolutely everything they're doing wrong at all times and so slowly but surely wear down their self-confidence until they're shaky messes of human beings who think they can't do anything right. That's more or less Scott's full time occupation at this point. And he doesn't just limit it to the students, either. The amount of times he and Logan have almost gotten into a straight out fistfight because Scott can't help but take issue with…oh I don't know, just about every single aspect of Logan's being.

"You and Logan are close."

I blinked in surprise at Ororo's sudden observation. "I…yes? I guess so?"

For so long, Ororo just watched me in silence as the elevator slowed to a halt and the doors slid open.

"Look, Ororo…" I began, not quite sure what she was silently accusing me of but determined to defend myself nonetheless. "It's not-"

"I would be careful," she told me flatly, before exiting the elevator and making her way down the corridor towards the Danger Room, leaving me standing there, staring at her retreating back in complete and utter confusion.

"I'll…keep that in mind," I managed, too late for her to hear me.

I have no idea what that was.

Rather than dwell on it, I headed down the corridor, which would eventually lead straight to the hangar.

Because we have a hangar.

And a jet!

It comes up from the basketball court that retracts to make way for it.

Sometimes I forget about the absurdity of this place. It all seems so _normal_ until I actually stop to think about it. Like, yeah. We have a fighter jet. We're a super-heroic mutant paramilitary based in a school. It just doesn't occur to me that maybe these things are slightly beyond the realm of the mundane.

I emerged into the hangar only to be distracted by Hank, who was quite calmly clambering all over what Bobby had lovingly and so creatively nicknamed the X-Jet, reading what I could only assume were some kind of schematics. He was talking, but I couldn't make out his words. It all sounded like technical mumbo-jumbo to me. Considering how fast the words seemed to fly out of his mouth, it may as well have been.

"Yeah Hank!" I heard Scott call from somewhere I couldn't see him. "I-" he was cut off by a small _clank;_ "dammit!"

Cautiously, I approached, gazing up at the looming form of the Blackbird, arms folded and a distinct look of disgust etching itself onto my face. I didn't like it when Hank got into one of his tinkering moods and decided to take it out on the jet. I _really_ didn't like it when Scott joined him. Hank has too much potential to be a diabolical super genius without Scott enthusiastically egging him on. One day, sooner or later, they're going to do something stupid and our poor, unfortunate jet that has suffered so much abuse already is going to fall apart mid-flight.

"I hope you two realise that if that thing breaks, we all die," I called dryly. "You shouldn't…_experiment_ with it."

Without warning, Scott popped up into view, looking like your typical grease monkey. He'd been nurturing a growing affection for this kind of thing, and it was getting to a point I wasn't certain what he loved more – the jet, his motorbike, or me.

Yes, he got himself a motorbike.

_No,_ I don't approve.

I arched an eyebrow at the thought. This is the man who had such a strong fear of flying he could barely walk in an airport without having an anxiety attack just a few years ago. Now look at him. Look at what Professor Xavier's careful grooming and encouragement has turned my cute awkward nerd boyfriend into. A hobbyist mechanic. And a _pilot._

No, really. He _flies_ that thing. He's pretty damn good at it, too. Although, considering who his father is and his general upbringing, I suppose I should've seen that coming. Once an Air Force brat, always an Air Force brat. No getting away from that.

"It's not going to break," Scott assured me, before disappearing from view once more.

Hank nodded in agreement. "In fact, it would be far _more_ likely to fall apart if not properly maintained."

"Pulling it apart and reassembling it like a high tech fighter jet jigsaw is a little more than standard maintenance," I pointed out dryly. "We're going to fall straight out of the sky and I'll know exactly who to blame. And I _will_ blame you."

"Should those circumstances ever occur Jean, you are more than welcome to," Hank told me smoothly, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

"Don't you have better things to do than pull apart the Blackbird, Hank?" I called up to him. "Like, oh I don't know…_teaching a class,_ perhaps?"

My words seemed to Hank by surprise so much so that in his haste to check his watch, the schematics – or blueprints, or plans, or whatever you're supposed to call them – slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor.

"Oh my stars and garters! You're right!"

With those words, and the grace of an Olympic gymnast, he slipped down from his perch on the jet and rushed to the door, quickly disappearing behind it as both Scott and I stared vacantly after him.

And for an excruciatingly long moment, there was nothing but a dumbfounded silence.

"_'Oh my stars and garters'_?" Scott repeated incredulously as he too, climbed down from the Blackbird, though without Hank's speed, nor his elegance. "Did he actually just _say_ that?"

"Hank's a special breed of person," I replied with a shrug.

He didn't argue with that as he approached me, leaning in to kiss me.

"Uh, no. No way," I said, playfully swatting him away. "You're filthy."

He pulled an expression of mock-hurt, before brushing my cheek with his thumb, leaving a black stain in its wake. I pulled away in disgust, but was ultimately too late. He smiled victoriously.

"So are you," he said, kissing my cheek.

I groaned loudly. "Why do I love you?"

He laughed and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, bringing in close. "Because you're a hopeless romantic and I'm just that loveable."

"You're an _asshole."_

"And yet, here you are."

Here I am.

Still.

After something like four years.

I smiled and swiftly kissed him. "You're in a good mood," I observed.

He pulled back at that, eyebrows raised. "Should I _not_ be in a good mood?"

"It's not a _bad _thing," I pointed out earnestly.

"Just not what you expected."

"And who's fault is that?"

He paused for a moment, considering it. "Alright, fine, it's mine. I'm a lord of angst. I can't help it."

"At least you admit it."

Look how far we've all come in the last five years. Though if that progress is thanks to our lives at the Institute or just one more inevitable part of growing up, I'll never be able to tell.

God. Listen to me. I've become an _adult._

When did that happen?

"So, did you just come down here to remind Hank he had a class, or is there something else you want?" Scott asked, pulling me back into reality.

I looked up at him, trying to think of all the possible things to say. I mean, the truth is that I only came down for Hank so there's nothing actually keeping me here. But, Scott's my boyfriend. And we're alone. And that just doesn't ever happen these days.

"We're going on a date," I announced brightly.

He just stared at me vacantly. "We're…_what?"_

"You and me. Going someplace nice and relationship stuff. A date."

_"Now?"_

"Yes."

"But I- …you never said anything about this before."

"It's a surprise date. Surprise!"

His brow creased a little at that and he watched me critically for maybe the longest thirty seconds of my life. I stood there, arms folded, staring right back at him, determined not to back down. I don't know why I engage in these staring contests with a man whose eyes are forever hidden by impenetrable dark red lenses. I don't know how or why I always expect to win when I do.

"You literally made this up right then, didn't you?"

"Scott, you're breaking the illusion."

"I'm supposed to pretend that you actually planned something ahead of time rather than be your usual impulsive self?"

"You hear that, Scott? It's the illusion. Breaking."

He sighed that long-suffering sigh of his when he thinks I'm being reckless and impulsive – which, admittedly, is _all the freaking time_ – and pinched the bridge of his nose, but seemed to let it go.

"Where are we planning to go, exactly?"

"Does it matter?"

"It might."

I rolled my eyes. "Not everything has to be a pre-planned thing, _oh mighty Cyclops._ It'll be a fun exciting adventure and we'll enjoy every second of it without knowing what's coming."

"Right. Because when has _that_ ever gone badly?"

I huffed and turned away. "Fine. I'll ask Logan."

"Ha, yeah, that's not happening," he said, his arm snaking around my waist and carefully steering me to the door. "Give me five minutes."


	34. Chapter Thirty Four

And then the two mutants who also happened to be members of the X-Men proceeded have an entirely normal outing, in which no one gave them looks, vague murmurings and insults did not follow them everywhere they went as people realised what they were, no budding supervillains revealed themselves, no one got into a fight, and the world did not, in fact, end.

Said absolutely no one ever.

Scott's head hit the table and he let out an almighty sigh as I tapped my fingernails against my coffee mug. After twenty minutes of aimless wandering that had driven Scott completely crazy, we'd settled on getting coffee at a nice little café. Though I can't say he was particularly enjoying this part either.

"Four," he muttered under his breath. _"Four_ different people have shot me looks in the past _two minutes."_

I smiled. I couldn't help it. "You keep track of every time someone looks at you funny?"

He didn't look up. "You _don't?"_

"I don't _need_ to," I pointed out.

"The woman three tables down from us keeps looking. Do you think she's eavesdropping?"

And there it is. That good old paranoia where Scott automatically gets suspicious of every new person he meets. And I mean, _every_ new person. Ever since he found out – or remembered, or however you want to put it – about what happened with Essex, he hasn't really been able to bring himself to trust. Within thirty seconds of seeing someone, he has a lengthy list of reasons why they shouldn't be trusted. Everyone is somehow either Essex himself or working for him – which is odd; considering that despite years of multiple people pooling resources to try to track the man down, no one has found hide nor hair of him.

Of course, Scott doesn't believe he's gone. I'm not sure Scott will _ever_ believe that.

And here I used to think it wasn't _possible_ for Scott to get _more _paranoid.

I looked over at the woman in question, who was idly stirring her own drink, completely absorbed in something she was reading on her phone, only to sneak a peek at us every few minutes or so. Then, slowly, I looked back at Scott, who was still resting his head on the table, one hand grabbing a fistful of his hair while the other kept his glasses pressed firmly in place.

"I think she's concerned about the young man draped over a table who looks like he's just had the week from hell," I told him. "That's you, by the way."

He didn't move. "You're kidding."

"And _now_ she's just spotted your glasses, and she's confused why you're wearing them inside," I continued dryly. "Oh, she's worried you were in a fight and are trying to hide a black eye. It's actually rather sweet."

"Okay, maybe she's just a normal person, but the barista-"

"-is too busy trying to do his job to pay us any attention," I cut across him smoothly. "And only looked at you oddly before because you're wearing dark sunglasses inside."

Scott grumbled something unintelligible and shifted ever so slightly in his seat.

I sighed and leaned forward, gently clasping his hand. "Scott. Honey. You need to calm down."

"I _am_ calm."

"If you're analysing every person who glances your way on the off chance they're going to attack you, it's probably a sign you're not all that calm."

Finally, he lifted his head, glancing back up at me. "I'm ruining this, aren't I?"

I rolled my shoulders back, trying my best to be nonchalant. "Maybe a little."

"Sorry," he mumbled, facing away from me now, like he was too embarrassed to make eye contact. "It's just, the last time we were here…"

He trailed off into silence, while I just stared.

"Last time?" I repeated vacantly, before glancing around the café myself. "We've been here before?"

There didn't seem to be anything outstanding or particularly remarkable about the place. It was just some café. I couldn't remember ever being here before, but Scott seemed certain.

"Four years ago," he explained quietly, noticing my look of disbelief. "Just before the sentinel attacked. Remember?"

I pulled back before gazing at our surroundings once more, straining my mind back to that day, trying to find anything that matched. Honestly, I couldn't remember anything much other than the actual fight itself. I remember the panic setting in, as the sheer confusion and disbelief I felt as Scott remained perfectly calm throughout the entire ordeal, barking orders like he'd done it a hundred times before.

Which doesn't surprise me _now,_ but back when we were sixteen and the X-Men was still just a group of five teenagers who'd never actually seen real violence? Back then, it was different. It was new. All of it.

That was _four years ago._

Jesus Christ, when did I get old?

My eyes narrowed. "All of the things to remember about that day…and you remember the _café?"_

"I remember the fight, too," he told me plainly, glancing back out at the street. "Seems so long ago now."

It _was _so long ago. Back when everything was new and crazy. Back when I was the only girl on a team with four guys. Back when no one had to worry about impromptu lightning storms in the middle of a fight. Back when superheroes, fighting crime, and codenames were still more jokes than they were actual reality.

I sighed wistfully. "Do you ever miss it? The old team?"

His brows furrowed a little at that. "What do you mean? We're all still around."

"Warren left, Hank only teaches nowadays, Bobby's at the Institute part-time, and even me and you are less invested than we used to be," I pointed out. "Don't you miss the good old days when Danger Room sessions didn't always end in a fight? I know I do."

Scott groaned loudly and massaged his temples. "For Christ's sake, Jean, it was _one time."_

"It was a very _memorable_ one time."

"He started it."

_"Logan_ isn't the one who punched a hole in the wall."

"Technically, he _was."_

"Because you sent him through it," I said with a sigh. "Honestly, we're lucky he's not _dead."_

He gave a thoroughly nonchalant shrug and looked away. "It's not luck when you have a healing factor."

Now there, he had a point. Not a very _nice_ point, but a point nonetheless. Scott had sized up Logan, his powers, and his limits within about three days of knowing him – just like he had done with everyone. Scott knew exactly what he could do to Logan without causing grievous irreparable harm. To him, it's not a fight. It's never a fight. It's careful and controlled. It's not so much a _fight_ as it is _surgery._

It wasn't luck that Logan walked away from that no worse for wear. No, _that_ was just what happens when you get into a fight with someone like Scott Summers.

I noticed Scott's brow crease slightly and felt his mind steel a little as my thoughts bled through the link, but he didn't say anything. I sighed and rolled my shoulders back.

"We shouldn't be talking about this. It's supposed to be a _date,_ and I-"

I cut off sharply, straightening and looking wildly around the café as I noticed the unmistakable feeling of rising panic drifting around on the edge of my consciousness. I gazed around, trying to find whomever was the source, trying to work out why. Finally, my eyes fell upon a young woman who worked at the café with a phone glued to her ear – before quickly glancing back to Scott. He seemed to notice, because his eyebrows rose slightly at my behaviour.

"Jean?"

I stood up. "We need to leave."

"What?"

"That woman on the phone is being told that there's been a bomb threat in the area. They're about to evacuate the entire street," I told him quietly.

Almost immediately, Scott stood up too. "What, seriously?"

I gave him my best _does it look like I'm kidding_ face. "You're in my brain just as much as I'm in yours. You tell me."

It was barely half a second later when Scott, with that aura of strange tranquillity he gets when he finds himself in a stressful situation, silently took my hand and we both headed for the exit just as the waitress who'd gotten the phone call placed the phone back on the receiver and began telling others the situation. By the time the evacuation was actually in progress, we were already gone.

"Why can't this ever happen when I'm prepared for it?" Scott complained quietly as we got out onto the sidewalk.

"You mean there's ever a time when you're _not_ prepared to go all _Cyclops_ on everyone's ass?" I asked sceptically. "Scott, I'm shocked."

_"Not the time,_ Jean," he told me sharply before pulling me down the street with him.

I sighed, before slowing to a halt. "Wait."

Scott twisted around to face me, arching an eyebrow. "What?"

"Where are we going? The problem's that way."

"Yeah, and what exactly do either of us plan to do?" he asked, his voice low and cold now. "Do you know where the bomb is? How do you expect to find it? To _disarm_ it, if you do? How about getting past the police that have cordoned off the area? What exactly is your plan here?"

"I could use telekinesis-"

"That'll more than likely set it off."

"You're an expert now, are you? What's _your_ plan, then?"

His lip curled slightly. "The _only_ thing that matters right now is getting everyone out of here."

"And if it explodes?"

"Then the city loses a building," he replied shortly.

"God, you're so _callous!"_

"You'd rather we risk losing _lives_ instead?" he snapped back at me. "I don't know how many times I have to say this, but, _you don't know how to disarm a bomb._ There's nothing useful either of us can do."

"It could be a hoax," I pointed out.

He nodded. "Could be. It could also be real. Doesn't change anything either way."

"Scott-"

"You can't be a flawless hero one hundred percent of the time, Jean," he cut across me sharply. "Sometimes, you have to cut your losses and decide what's more important."

I sighed. "You're right."

He pulled back in surprise. "I- …what?"

I'd never heard him sound so shocked in his life. For ages, we both just stared at each other, not really knowing what to say, or how to react. I could feel suspicion colour Scott's mind as he watched me, trying to work out what I was thinking. If he really wanted to know, he could just use the link to find out – but that would be abusing it, and that goes against everything Scott is as a person. He doesn't like getting inside my head if he can help it.

But there are two sides to the link, and I am not Scott.

"Jean."

"What?"

"What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on."

"You never do that. You never say I'm right. Something's obviously going on."

Slowly, tentatively, I reached out telepathically, carefully infiltrating his mind via the link. Soft. Gentle. Stealthily enough so he won't notice.

"Talk to me," he practically begged me.

"Scott," I called, staring unwaveringly at his face. "You're going to leave. And you're going to stay a safe distance away from here."

"I-"

"You're going to _leave,"_ I repeated forcefully, through gritted teeth. "And you're _not_ going to come after me."

I could feel his mind immediately steel as he realised what I was doing to him, and he tried to pull away, only for me to telekinetically keep him in place, never breaking eye contact.

"Don't," he hissed as he strained uselessly against me. "Jean, _don't."_

_"You're going to leave."_

"I'm not…"

God, Scott, don't make this any harder than it already is.

I never thought telepathically compelling Scott to do _anything_ would be easy – he has so much practise at fighting such things. First with Essex and whatever he did to him, and later with Professor Xavier; though that was training and done at Scott's request. Since then, he's become startlingly good at keeping telepaths out of his head. If he was anyone else, we'd be at an impasse. But, Scott has the disadvantage of being incapable of keeping me out. For once, the link is working in my favour. And even with that, it's still a fight.

Then, finally, _mercifully,_ he slacked. He gently pulled away from me, before turning heel and walking in the opposite direction of the commotion.

I watched him go for a moment, breathing a sigh of relief. I was still relatively new to telepathic suggestion and commands, and something tells me I only managed to overpower him through the outright force the link allowed me.

Which meant he had quite the formidable mental defence.

And he is so not going to be happy with me when he inevitably manages to fight off the compulsion.

Jean. Move. _Faster._

A police officer saw me approach, and immediately moved to stop me.

"Whoa, whoa, lady, you can't come through here, it's-"

My eyes flicked up to his face.

_"I can pass. In thirty seconds, you will not remember I was here."_

He trembled a little – perhaps I'd been a little too much. Scott had been more of a struggle than I was anticipating so maybe I'd started out way too strong for someone far less accustomed to fighting telepathic suggestion. He pulled back, and watched me somewhat vacantly as I passed, silently nudging everyone not to pay me any mind.

I've never done this before. It had taken years of years of slowly wearing Professor Xavier down before he'd even teach me the theory behind any techniques of telepathic compulsion. He seemed to think it was dangerous knowledge to have. As I climbed the steps into the threatened building, I began to realise why he felt that way. I can make anyone do anything with this. There's literally nothing stopping me.

Realising this, I paused, turning back around to glance at all the assembled emergency crews.

_"Get out of here,"_ I murmured, the sheer force of the command giving out a slight pulse as it reached everyone in the area. _"All of you. Leave."_

And they did.

Just like that, they all turned heel, and left.

Mass evacuation, curtesy of Jean Grey.

That is _so cool._

Tell me I'm not a motherfucking badass. Just try.

Bolstered from the sudden rush of confidence, I pushed the door open and headed inside, only to immediately realise that Scott had been right. I didn't have any idea of where to start looking. I didn't really have a good idea of what I was looking _for._

Damn it.

Dammit, dammit, _dammit!_

No. This is fine. I can work with what I have. It'll just take a little longer than I thought.

Marvel Girl to the rescue, right?

I hummed thoughtfully. "Now, if I were a bomb, where would I be…?"

Somewhere out of the way. Somewhere people wouldn't naturally look.

_Tick._

I headed down a hallway, trying to think. Because that's gone so spectacularly well for me so far today.

_Tick._

I wonder how long it's going to take Scott to break free of the compulsion. I wonder if he has already, and is sprinting down the street right now, just so he can drag me back and yell at me for being so reckless. Certainly sounds like the kind of thing he'd do.

_Tick._

Who'd threaten to bomb an office building on a quiet street, anyway? And who draws attention to it in the first place? Not exactly the most creative or diabolical of evil plans. Unless it _is_ a hoax.

_Tick._

A blast of light and heat.

Automatically, my mind reached out, trying to use telekinesis as some kind of shield to protect myself as fire exploded out from a nearby closet, blowing the door off its hinges, throwing me back from the sheer force of the growing explosion.

I don't want to die.

Not here.

Not like this.

I squeezed my eyes shut tight, hoping, praying for something, _anything,_ some strange and totally random occurrence of deus ex machina to save me.

When I opened them again, the mansion was coming down.

Window blew out, sending jagged shards of glass flying across the room, barely missing me as I sprinted down the hall, screaming in fear as the fire raged and consumed everything in sight while the water did nothing to stop it. Around me, the mansion was collapsing, giving way to the waiting inferno, falling back into the oblivion of the void. Water poured from everywhere, raining down on me relentlessly, pushing me down without doing a thing to help.

You'd think a mental projection of my own mind would be a little less temperamental and maybe try a little harder to save itself.

But that would make too much sense.

And if there's one thing I've learned about the human consciousness, it's that it never does what you expect or want it to, and it _never_ makes sense.

There is one thing here that I know can help. One thing here that I know will save me.

Only question is whether I'm willing to pay the price.

What choice do I have?

I'm going to die.

Oh, god.

I don't want to die.

Automatically, I bolted down the hall, heading straight for the vault. The vault I should not remember. The vault I insisted to myself that I needed forget, out of fear of what knowing its location might do to me. Turns out, that knowledge is probably going to save my life.

Funny about that. Honestly.

My hands gripped the vault door tightly, and I cast a frightened glance back at the entrance of the hallway, that was now being consumed by flames. The water, whatever it was supposed to represent here, would not save me. I knew that. There was only one thing that could, and everything, every single fibre of my being is _screaming_ at me not to use it. Not to go down that road. Because there's a reason it was taken from me in the first place. There's a _reason_ it was kept from me despite my progress.

Accept that you made the wrong decision. Recognise the consequences. Embrace the death that has come for you. Admit that you've lost.

I gritted my teeth furiously.

I don't know how to lose.

I looked back at the door, took a deep breath, and wrenched it open.

My grip on the door handle slipped and I staggered back, slamming against the wall as yet more water poured from the room. For what seemed like forever, I just stared, stared mindlessly into a dark cell that seemed to yield nothing whatsoever. For what felt like forever, I remained slumped against the wall, staring, waiting. I don't know for what. For salvation. For death. For a saviour. For a monster.

Suddenly, the entire mansion seemed to rumble. My head snapped as the rumbling grew louder and everything began to shake violently. I slid further to the floor, my heart thumping in my chest as I realised what I'd just done. What I'd just unleashed.

The rumbling grew into a roar and blocked out all else, and someone – some_thing_ – emerged from the darkness. What, I don't know. I didn't care.

In an instant, everything flashed a brilliant white and fire exploded out from everywhere and I could feel it, feel it over every inch of my skin, eating away at me and threatening to consume everything about me. Everything I ever was. Everything I ever will be. Wild and unstoppable, absurd and obscene, so hopelessly beyond understanding, more dangerous and amazing than anything that has ever come before or will ever come since.

And it's _me._

This power, this raw and utterly indescribable _power,_ is mine.

It's part of me, and mine to control.

I don't know why I was so scared. I was so caught up in being consumed I never realised that it's not the case. The only thing here, the only thing that has ever _been_ here, is me. All of this, all of this craziness, all the things I thought I couldn't control, all the things I was scared of because they were strange and savage, is mine. There's nothing to fear from it. It can't destroy me. It _is_ me.

_Nothing_ can destroy me.

I am power.

I am limitless.

I am _everything._

And I opened my eyes.


	35. Chapter Thirty Five

"I'm fine. I'm _fine,_ Hank."

Hank McCoy didn't buy into my protests. He paced around the med-lab, tapping his pen against his bottom lip, watching me with a mixed expression of complete and utter disbelief and polite curiosity. I sat perched on a bench, watching him watch me, gripping the bench tightly – not because I was tense, but because I could almost _feel_ it; feel every single one of the individual molecules that made up the structure. I could feel the bonds between them, could see them in my mind. Without me even really thinking about it, the bonding between the atoms dissolved, and the bench began to crumble into nothing against my hands.

And evidently, Hank noticed.

"Jean," he called my name worriedly. "I'd truly appreciate it if you refrained from disintegrating my equipment."

Instantly, I looked down, to find two significant holes where my hands were. With a startled gasp, I leapt down, shaking my hands and trying to focus on _not_ using my powers.

That's new.

"Oh my god…I'm sorry Hank, I didn't know I could do that."

He just shrugged it off. "It's replaceable."

"Are you sure? Because I might be able to-"

"Jean," he called my name reassuringly. "It's fine. Don't exhaust yourself trying to fix it."

"Exhaust myself?" I repeated blankly, utterly confused. "I'm not tired."

"Not at the moment, no. But the effort of what you just did might take a while to sink in. I want to avoid you losing consciousness if at all possible."

The _effort?_

I glanced back at the bench I'd just been sitting on, and the two hand-sized holes in it. I didn't feel any different from five minutes ago. Every time I'd been wiped out by my powers, the effect had been immediate. For there to suddenly be a delayed reaction didn't make sense.

Unless there wasn't going to _be_ a delayed reaction, because I've just become that insanely powerful.

"So, what's your verdict?" I asked finally.

"My verdict?" he asked, mildly surprised. "Aside from the, uh, sudden and significant power surge, you're in perfect health. Your vitals are solid; your cognitive functions are running as per normal. There doesn't appear to be any adverse effects. Like I said, you're in perfect health."

"And…?" I prompted.

_"And,_ talk to the professor."

"No."

_"Jean."_

"He locked my powers away in the first place!" I pointed out angrily, as the entire mansion seemed to start shaking violently, so much so that tiny, wire thin cracks appeared in the walls. "He'll just do it all over again. I finally have it back – have it _all_ back – and he'll take it away."

Or, he'll _try,_ at least.

But I won't let him.

I _won't._

There's nothing he can do to stop me.

There was a loud _crack_ as the bulb of the light above our heads burst, leaving us only with the natural light that came in through the small windows. Hank folded his arms and just looked at me, eyebrows raised critically. I pulled back defensively.

"That wasn't my fault."

He didn't buy that, either. "Jean, understand the risk you're taking. Everything that happened just now, you did _without meaning to._ Consider the possibility of the destruction you could cause when you have intent to harm."

"It's honestly nothing. Just my telekinesis acting up. It's happened before."

"Not to the point of causing structural damage to the mansion," he pointed out, gesturing at the cracked walls.

"I can _control_ it."

"You seem to be struggling with that thus far."

"It's just new to me! I need practice, that's all."

"I doubt it's only your telekinesis. And only the professor could tell you what effect this will have on your telepathic abilities," he told me gently. "Speaking of which…you should discuss this with Scott."

I blinked in surprise. "Scott? Why?"

"You're in a relationship with him, as I recall. It seems natural you would talk to him about this."

"Can we still call it a relationship if he's not speaking to me?"

Hank shrugged. "That's something for you and Scott to work out."

And that's one _hell_ of an argument waiting to happen.

"Also, due to the psychic connection the two of you have, your exponential increase in power has a chance of affecting him as well," he added in what seemed like an afterthought. "It's unlikely, but a possibility he should be made aware of."

I let out a long, exasperated sigh and turned away. "Should I even bother asking how or why you know about that? Did Scott tell you?"

"Wouldn't you know if he had?"

"He's not exactly in a sharing mood," I muttered, tapping my temple. "He's been consciously blocking me out since…"

Since I compelled him to do something he didn't want to do. Since I took advantage of him and did to him exactly what Essex had. Exactly what I promised I would never do to him. The reasonable part of me knows that Scott has _every right_ to be pissed off with me. But I am not the reasonable part of me, and Scott likely would've been caught up in the blast and died if I hadn't sent him away.

I know that.

_He_ knows that.

So really, he's just making a huge deal out of absolutely nothing.

"Since…?" Hank prompted.

"…the blast," I finished lamely.

Not that he could keep me out if he tried. Not anymore. I'm so much stronger than that. The sheer force with which I could probably telepathically attack someone is astronomical. Not even Scott and his colossal force of will could hope to block an assault by me.

"In any case, I was informed about the situation by Professor Xavier."

My head snapped up. "You _what?"_

More shaking. More cracks in the walls. More breakable things breaking. More not generally considered breakable things crumbling into dust around me.

"Jean-"

"Since _when_ was that _his_ business?" I demanded as several glass things shattered.

"Since you emerged from an explosion that should have _killed_ you _unharmed,"_ he told me flatly. "Scott told us about how he found you-"

"Oh, so _Scott_ was in on this too?"

"No one was _in on it,_ Jean. It wasn't something to be _in on._ Everyone is simply concerned about you. And given how you returned here, that concern isn't misplaced."

My lip curled. "Yes, yes, Scott heroically carried me across the threshold. Ororo's already told me _all about_ it."

And she had. Oh _god,_ she had. Seemed like the second I first woke up in the med-lab, she was there, giggling like a little girl and gushing to me about how utterly _romantic_ it had all been. The way she talked about what happened, it sounded like something out of a fairy tale – me being the distressed damsel and Scott the heroic prince. It was possibly the absolute _last_ thing I'd have expected from the hardened Kenyan weather goddess, but there you go. Turns out Ororo Munroe is the world's biggest secret romantic.

Apparently Once Scott fought off my compulsion, he'd run straight back towards the building – exactly what I'd expected him to do – just in time to see it all go up in flames. Then he found me, calmly walking out of the destruction without so much as a scratch. I'd mumbled something incoherent and then I'd collapsed.

I didn't remember that part; but then, I didn't remember most of it. The last clear memory I have is opening the vault, and I'm not sure that even counts since it was on the astral plane and not actually a physical thing that happened. Everything I've just sort of constructed from what Ororo has described to me with both a loving and excruciating attention to detail.

She said she'd never seen Scott look so panicked. I'm having a hard time imagining that. Every time I think of _Scott_ and _panic,_ I get a usually unwanted memory of finding a terrified and bleeding fifteen-year-old boy with newly manifested mutant powers hunched behind a dumpster in an alley. I don't think of a twenty-year-old man with my unconscious form in his arms yelling for help, which is apparently what happened.

It's nice to think he still cared about my wellbeing then. I can't say anything about how he feels now, on account of him doing that thing where he goes silent and completely blank. Which he only does when he's so screwed up with emotions that he can't handle it and so doesn't. He just…turns them off, buries them until they're not there anymore. Somehow.

I don't know what this is. I don't know what it means. I'm terrified of what it _could_ mean. What I know it probably _does_ mean.

Because, _yeah,_ Scott really is _that pissed off._

I've been in a relationship for the past _four years._ I'm not sure I even know _how_ to be single anymore.

I inhaled shakily at the thought. Maybe I'm just speculating and I think it's worse than what it is, but I don't know what Scott's actually thinking. He hasn't said _anything_ to me. Or to anyone. And yeah, I could just invade his mind and find out, but I have this vague inkling that doing that will make everything so much worse.

Dammit. I'm not equipped for this. I try to do the right thing and it ends in crazy limitless powers and relationship trouble. Seems like everything I do ends badly.

I can't _be_ the perfect, straight-laced hero type. I can't do that. All this power at my disposal, and I'm _still_ inferior to Scott in that regard. I always have been. I'm not sure if that will ever change.

Maybe we were always doomed to this. Maybe it was idealistic and overly romantic of me to ever assume we were actually good for each other. He's so different from me. Maybe too much.

Tears were already sliding down my cheeks by the time I realised they were there at all. I sniffed a little and quickly wiped them away, not wanting Hank to notice and ask. Fortunately, he was too absorbed in his notes to notice.

Given everything that's happened in the past few days…maybe it's a sign.

Maybe this is the world telling me to start over.

"That's…certainly one way to put it," Hank said with a sigh, pulling me back into reality. "I suppose you really are _Marvel Girl_ now."

I blinked several times. "What?"

His head snapped up from his notes in surprise – apparently he hadn't expected me to hear that. There were a few seconds as he just watched me and I just watched him, both of us waiting for the other to speak. Then, finally, Hank sighed and rolled his shoulders back.

"Walking out of an explosion with nary a burn is an impressive feat," he explained. "The way Scott told it, it almost sounds like you died and came back to life."

I laughed. "Yeah, well, that's ridiculous."

"Is it?" Hank contradicted. "We live in a strange world, Jean. Who knows what miracles we are yet to see. Especially when it comes to _you."_

For so long, I just sat there in silence, watching him. Trying to figure out what any of this meant. Truthfully, I had _no idea_ what happened in that blast. I had no idea what opening the vault had actually done. Maybe I was already dead at that point, and those last moments in the astral plane were nothing more than my own dying consciousness. I honestly don't know what happened. Maybe there's a reason why I don't remember.

I've died once before. Everyone I've ever told has said it wasn't _real,_ that it wasn't a _true_ death, but I know what I experienced. I know what happened that day, with Annie. I know I got caught up in her mind as she died, I know I went through what she did, to the point it caused me to go catatonic. It _was_ real. I _know_ it was real.

So what makes this time any different?

I died in that blast.

I died, and I emerged from the flames as a new person. My soul reborn with all its potential realised.

"No," I murmured. "Not Marvel Girl. Not anymore."

Something different. Something _more._ More than Marvel Girl ever was. More than she ever had the potential to be.

Hank arched an eyebrow curiously. "Jean?"

"Hank," I called his name sweetly, forcing a small smile. "What do you think of Phoenix?"


	36. Chapter Thirty Six

"Phoenix," Bobby stated in a dull monotone, clearly not at all impressed.

"That's what I said," I said with a sigh.

_"Phoenix,_ though? That makes no goddamn sense," he argued. "You're a telekinetic telepath. Mind powers. Where does Phoenix fit into that?"

I groaned. "It's not about my _powers,_ Bobby. It's about…"

I trailed off into silence as Scott entered the kitchen, looking exhausted and generally a bit wrecked. I watched him awkwardly, wanting to say something as he casually ignored my existence. Bobby leaned on the island counter, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to finish explaining my reasoning behind the new codename.

"It's about…what?" he prompted.

"…rebirth," I mumbled somewhat sheepishly. "It's about rebirth."

"Well that's stupid."

"What's this?" Scott asked as he pulled a cereal box out of the cupboard.

"My awesome codename that I went to all the time and effort of coming up with apparently isn't good enough for Jean," Bobby complained, all while throwing me the shadiest look he could possibly manage.

I rolled my eyes. "I was Marvel Girl for _five years,_ Bobby."

"And she's been trying to change it for at least four of those five," Scott pointed out dryly.

I pulled a distinctly annoyed look which he ignored like a professional. It was the closest he'd come to actually engaging me in conversation in days, and even now it was more directed at Bobby than me. I don't suppose it mattered either way – Bobby just continued his tirade.

"But you're established as Marvel Girl! That's what people know you as; it's going to mess everything up if you just _change_ it like it's nothing. How are you going to go public with the change, anyway? You gonna go around correcting everyone?" he asked, before putting on a terrible voice that I guess was supposed to be an imitation of me. _"It's not Marvel Girl, it's Phoenix."_

Something tells me I should really be offended by Bobby's horrendous attempt to mimic my voice, but to be totally honest, all of my energy is being wasted on trying to argue with him in the first place. He wants me to be offended. He wants me to feel about him the same way he feels about me right now. That's what Bobby Drake is like. Emotional manipulation is how he retaliates to hurt feelings.

Just feels like an overcompensation to me.

I shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I'll get a new outfit. Something green. I like green – it brings out my eyes."

"So she's changing her name to something that makes people think of _fire_ despite her _mental abilities_ and she'll wear a _green_ costume just to really ram home the fact that, despite supposedly being a telepath, she has no idea how people think," Bobby drawled. "Come on. At least go with red. You know; something _fire-coloured."_

"It's not about _fire,_ Bobby," I insisted for what felt like the millionth time.

Bobby opened his mouth to argue but was cut off when the kitchen door burst open again, this time revealing Logan, with an exhausted looking Ororo trailing behind him. Immediately, all three of us – Scott, Bobby, and me – looked up, and a strangely tense silence filled the room. With a small growl, Logan stalked over to the fridge, opening it and gazing mindlessly inside for what felt like and probably could've been a full minute.

"Where do you keep the alcohol in this damn place?"

Bobby immediately face palmed, and let out a long suffering sigh. "This is a _school,_ Logan. For children. You do the math. Also? It's _breakfast time._ On a _Sunday."_

"Did I ask, popstick?"

"It hasn't been _that _bad a week," Bobby reasoned. "C'mon Logan. Buck up. You can survive a day without corrupting the innocent children."

"That an order?" Logan asked, shortly followed by the sharp popping of him cracking his knuckles.

Bobby, sensing the danger, immediately backed down. "A plead! A _plead!_ Jesus Christ man, don't _kill_ me."

_"Logan,"_ Scott called tersely, causing everyone to suddenly look at him despite the fact that he was hunched over a bowl of cereal and prodding it mindlessly. "Stop. And in case you're wondering – _that's_ an order."

"Really? You know I don't take well to authority, Cyke."

"Seems like you don't take well to _anything,"_ Scott snarled, clearly in no mood to be tolerable.

And…this needs to stop. Now. _Right now._ Before anyone gets impaled or blown through a wall. Or both at the same time. Which could happen. Judging by the tension in the room right now, it could _absolutely_ happen.

"Okay!" I had to stop myself from screaming overtop the impending argument. "Can we save the fights for later?"

"Yes, mornings are not for fights," Ororo mumbled blearily as she tried and largely failed to stifle a huge yawn. "Mornings are for sleep. Why is everyone awake so early?"

Bobby's eyes narrowed at that. "…it's _nine thirty?"_

Ororo shrugged innocently. "None of the students are awake," she pointed out.

"They're teenagers. They'd sleep until one in the afternoon every day if they could."

"Are you not also a teenager?"

"Exactly. I would _know."_

"Speaking of sleeping late," I murmured as I glanced around the kitchen to find no presence of Hank. "Where's Hank? He's usually the first one up for breakfast."

Logan looked at me before shaking his head and returning to raiding the cupboards, and Bobby just shrugged. For a couple of a seconds, there was nothing but silence, until;

"He's asleep," Scott said with a small sigh, still mindlessly prodding his cereal like he didn't quite know what to do with it. "He only went to bed a couple of hours ago."

My head snapped up in surprise – I couldn't hide my shock over the fact that he had been the one to answer my question. For so long, I watched him carefully, not quite sure how to proceed. I mean, sure, it was flat, blank, a dull monotone answer to a simple question, but it was more than moody silence, which was all I really wanted at this point. I mean, at this rate, we might just start talking normally to each other again by the end of the week.

…even though I know that's never going to happen.

One can hope?

"How do you know that?" I asked, desperate to keep this interaction with my estranged boyfriend going.

"Because I was there."

He was there.

Meaning he hasn't slept yet.

Well, that explains a few things.

Carefully, I started reaching out telepathically, trying to deduce what exactly the two of them had been doing last night – no I'm not worried they were talking about me, why would anyone think that – only for Scott to immediately sense the intrusion quickly put up a steely defence.

He's getting so much better at that.

And I don't have the time or energy to fight him right now.

"I need to go," he said, getting up and emptying his bowl in the sink without giving any inclination of our brief telepathic battle.

Without another word, he left the kitchen, disappearing back through the door to who even knows where. After a brief pause, Logan also got up, grumbling to himself, before immediately going after him. There was a brief silence as the rest of us just sort of remained where we were, still trying to come to terms with what had actually just happened.

I have no idea what just happened.

I mean, I do. Scott is just having an exceptionally moody day, but I don't know _why._ Maybe it's the lack of sleep? I could investigate, but…well. We all know how that's going to end.

(Badly. The answer is, it would end _badly.)_

We're going to have to have that fight eventually. I'm dreading it, he's dreading it, we're both dreading it – only difference is, he's run through everything I could possibly say to him already in his head. He's already anticipated every single conceivable argument of mine and taken the time to come up with a counter argument for each of them. He's prepared. He's ready. For him, it's just one more fight, one more battle.

I have raw power on my side, but when you're going in against someone who plays with tactics not just for combat situations and occasionally for fun but it's actually part of how his brain functions, power isn't always an asset. And you know what makes it worse? Scott has both. Not to the point that he can even begin to compete with me, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least a little frightened by the sheer level of destruction I've seen him cause over the years.

_"Someone's_ especially broody today," Bobby mumbled after what felt like an eternity. "What's up his craw? Jean?"

I glanced up. "Huh? Why would I know?"

"Um, you're the resident telepath. And he's _your_ boyfriend."

"Why is that always said like it's an accusation?"

Why do I always react like it's not actually true? He _is_ my boyfriend. Or at least, he was, last time I checked. But he's pretty mad and we haven't spoken but it's not like we've officially _broken up,_ either…yet.

_Yet_ being the keyword here.

Oh, god.

Oh god, it's coming.

I can sense it.

The end is nigh.

The sooner we start talking again, the sooner it'll be official.

And _then_ where will I be? I'll be a mess. My emotions will be out of control and by extension my powers will go completely out of control and then I'll be crying and eating ice cream while surrounded by nothing but rubble. Both literal _and_ metaphorical.

No.

_God,_ no.

Don't make me do that.

Ororo sighed wistfully. "It would not be like this if you would talk to each other."

She's only been trying to quietly push me into fixing things with Scott every second of every day since she realised we weren't talking. It'd be kind of sweet if it weren't so annoying. Sometimes I wish she'd find her own relationship to obsess over so she wouldn't be constantly trying to regulate mine. Still. I suppose it's a sign that she cares. Maybe I should learn to take it as a compliment.

That didn't stop me from scowling. "Thank you, Ororo, but I don't need relationship advice right now."

_That_ piqued Bobby's interest. "Ooh, is there _trouble in paradise?"_

"You know; I don't recall ever giving you permission to speculate on my love life."

Bobby grinned. "Never needed your permission. Besides, speculating on your love life hasn't been this fun since before you and Scott started going out. And _that_ was _four years ago."_

"How is it you managed to get all the way to nineteen and _still_ act like you're twelve, Bobby?"

He held his hands up defensively. "Hey. I'm a delightful comedic relief. It's a service – you'd all be moaning mutant melodrama all the time if it wasn't for me."

_Moaning mutant melodrama_ was certainly one way to put it. As much as I hated to admit it, it was actually a pretty apt description of the past couple of weeks. Perhaps even the entirety of my life thus far.

Rather than actually tell Bobby that, I elected to neatly dodge the conversational pitfall.

"Nice alliteration," I commented dryly.

"It's a gift," he replied simply. "And you didn't answer my question."

I cast my eyes down. "I…don't really want to talk about it."

"Oh come _on!_ Seriously?"

Ororo huffed impatiently, drumming her fingers on the island counter we were all seated at, before throwing me a clear disapproving look. Because that's really going to inspire me to fix my problems. I shot her a brief dirty glance in retaliation, trying to make it abundantly clear that I wasn't going to fall to her disappointed mother routine. Finally, when I remained silent, she spoke.

"She used telepathy. He did not approve. Now they are not speaking, and acting like little children."

_"Ororo!"_ I hissed her name, my hands clenching into tight fists as blood rushed to my face. On the sink behind me, several dishes that had been left to dry cracked, and otherwise broke into pieces. Neither Ororo or Bobby seemed to pay any mind to it, however.

Breakable things breaking around Jean has truly become that commonplace now, it seems.

Bobby folded his arms, remaining distinctly unimpressed. "Oh come _on._ That's it? You're having a spat over some tiny incident with _telepathy? _Jesus fucking _Christ_ you two are petty. I mean, I know Scott doesn't like it, but it's not _his_ problem."

I gritted my teeth. "It's more complicated than that."

"What, because of that whole disaster with that Essex guy screwing around with Scott's brain his whole life?"

Almost out of pure reflex, I tensed. I don't know why. It' been relatively common knowledge – among the X-Men, at least – for a couple of years by this point. I mean, everyone generally has the good sense to refrain from bringing it up while Scott's in earshot, but they all _know._ That secret was never going to stay secret, and Scott knew it. Somehow it still freaks me out when it comes up in casual conversation.

I groaned and began rubbing my temples ceaselessly. _"Yes,_ Bobby, because of Essex."

"Because I don't see how that matters, unless you- …oh. Oh my _god._ No. You didn't. Jean? Tell me you _didn't."_

I looked away and said nothing.

Bobby just stared at me, in wide-eyed disbelief. "Are you _serious? _Jean, what- _what the ever-loving fuck?"_

There was no escaping it now. I had to tell him. I had to come totally clean about everything that happened on the day of the blast. I didn't want to – of course I didn't want to, there was absolutely no way I could word myself without making me sound like the villain of the piece – but it was becoming clear that this was no longer something between me and Scott. We were fighting, and that was starting to affect the entire team. It was probably better to get it all out in the open. Make the cut swift and clean. Kindest to everyone.

So, I told Bobby what happened. And Ororo too, since I'd refrained from telling her the details. I told them absolutely everything I remembered, despite knowing that they would both more than likely take Scott's side – because _everyone _always took Scott's side.

Bobby just gazed at me like he didn't think I was quite real. "Holy- …okay. Okay, wow. For once in my life, I think I'm taking Scott's side."

"Oh _give me a break_ – he would've _died_ if I hadn't done it."

"You really think _Scott Summers_ wouldn't have had the good sense to stay away from an explosion? Christ, he's not _you,_ Jean."

"Why are you taking his side? Why is _everyone_ taking his side?"

Bobby just arched an eyebrow at me incredulously. "Because you outright _mind controlled_ him? And that's kind of a violation of like, oh I don't know, _every single basic human right."_

I stood up, fists clenching as fury bubbled up inside me.

"I am not here to be _lectured,"_ I snarled. "Not by anyone. But especially not by the likes of _you."_

It was harsh. But in that moment, I didn't care. I pushed myself away from the island and stormed out of the kitchen, heart thumping in my chest and adamantly reminding myself that I wasn't the only one to blame for the current state of things being what they are. After all, if Scott had just _listened_ to me in the first place, I never would've had to control him. Or, maybe I'm angry because I _know_ that they're right; that _he's_ right. Maybe I'm angry because I know I screwed up so badly and I have no idea how to fix it.

I let out a frustrated groan and bolted through the garage door, making a beeline for my car. I don't know where I planned to go, exactly. I don't know what I planned to do. At that point, I'm not sure I cared. I just had to get out.

So I did.

I slid into the driver's seat, I gunned the engine, and I got the hell out of there.


	37. Chapter Thirty Seven

It was raining when I finally decided to stop driving.

I pulled into a carpark and turned off the engine, settling back into the driver's seat and watching rain splatter across the windshield for what felt like forever. There was nothing else for me to do. I'd gotten out. Now I was left to sit here and stew in all the shittiness of my being, because arguing with Ororo and Bobby has got me thinking about it. Now all I can do is just sit here and silently hate myself. Only thing that would make this more fitting was if I sat outside and contemplated my existence, allowing the rain to drench me in some kind of weird recompense. But I'm not going to do that. Because I'll get soaked. And then I'll get sick. And I don't deal with sickness well.

I let out an exhausted sigh and pulled out my phone. I need to talk about this, but to someone else. Someone who will actually take time to listen to my side of the story and can also be an unbiased third party.

"Hey Red," Jason greeted me warmly after just a couple of rings. "Glad to hear from you."

"You're sounding especially perky," I noted.

"It's always nice to find out one of my friends did not, in fact, die in a terrible explosion."

I blinked several times in surprise. "Oh… shit. _Shit,_ Jason. I'm sorry, I didn't even think-"

He laughed. "It's okay. I'd be a little mentally scrambled too if I got caught up in something like that. Saw the aftermath on the news, it's kind of hard to believe anyone could walk out of that. You just get more and more impressive with every passing day."

I smiled. I couldn't help it. I always smile when people compliment me, and I'm starting to come to the conclusion that people don't do it enough. I mean, I _am_ impressive. I wish I wasn't the one who had to constantly remind myself of that. I wish Professor Xavier would intersperse his worries about my ability to control myself with comments about how well I'm actually doing. I need positive reinforcement.

"Yes, well, I've gotten a whole lot more impressive lately," I said with a small, wistful sigh.

"Yeah? What does that mean, exactly?"

"Only that I can manipulate things on the molecular scale now," I answered, trying _way_ too hard to sound cavalier about the whole thing. It was hard. Harder than you'd think. It's amazing how difficult it is to tell someone how goddamn powerful and badass you are without having a huge grin plastered across your face.

And now that I'm getting the hang of it and things are breaking and disintegrating less often when I lose control of my emotions? All the better.

I kind of have to wonder, though… if I can do _this,_ what _else_ am I capable of? What else can I control? Could I compel an entire crowd? Could I disintegrate a building? If I can telekinetically manipulate things on a molecular scale, what's stopping me from doing something more? Could I disrupt wavelengths? What if I tried to telekinetically bend _light?_ Could I do that? If I did that… I could…

I could render myself invisible. I could blind people. _I could potentially manipulate Scott's beams._

Whoa now, don't get ahead of yourself. You don't even really know how that whole thing works.

But his ability – that's _light,_ isn't it? Light with concussive force and I'm not sure that really makes any sense in that regard, but who am I to get into the science of mutations? Since when was the _telekinetic telepath _in any way qualified to be a stickler for known science?

"…shit, Red," Jason said after a brief pause, his voice causing me to snap back into reality.

"I know, right?"

_"Shit,_ Red," he repeated with more vigour this time. "How does that even- …hell, I'm not sure I even want to know. Do you have any idea what you could be _capable_ of?"

I shrugged, even though I knew he couldn't see it. "I won't know until I test my limits."

Only problem with that being that I don't appear to _have any._

He laughed a little. "Maybe you should get caught up in explosions more often, Red."

I laughed too. "Yeah… maybe not. Once is enough for me. What I need to look at is who _planted_ that bomb in the first place."

"Got any ideas?"

"Not a one," I admitted cheerfully. "We'll just have to-"

A small tap on the passenger window interrupted me.

On reflex, I glanced in the direction of the sound, only to jump a little in fright when I found a sopping wet Scott standing there, just outside the car, standing motionless out in the rain. For several increasingly tense seconds, I just sat there, not really hearing Jason's attempts to get me to say something, to explain my sudden silence.

"I'm going to have to call you back," I murmured hoarsely, hanging up and slowly lowering the phone from my ear as I telekinetically opened the passenger door for Scott.

I don't know why I did that. He's quite possibly the last person I want to talk to right now. Maybe it was because it was raining and I didn't want to leave him out there until he eventually got sick, but he was already drenched. Maybe the damage was done.

Neither of us said anything as he slipped inside the car, pulling the door shut behind him and settling his soaking wet form into the seat. I looked away, not wanting to be part of this situation. Not wanting to be here at all. How he got out here at all was a mystery to me. Or even why he'd make the effort to come after me.

"Hey," he greeted me in little more than a hoarse whisper.

I still didn't look at him, but I knew I couldn't remain silent. "Hi."

And that was it.

That was all either of us had to say.

I think it's pretty clear to all involved that neither of us wants to have this argument. We both know it's coming, we both know it's inevitable, but we're still not having it. Taking yet more of the awkward silence over actually bothering to talk anything out. Because we all know how it will end. I know. He knows. All we're doing now is delaying the inevitable.

It's time I come to accept that, and stop fighting it.

After all, that seems to be a theme with me lately.

"I want-" he began.

"This is-" I said at the same time.

We both immediately cut off once realising we'd been talking over each other, and soon the silence was back. I shifted slightly in my seat, turning back to the window and refusing to look at him. I can't do this. Not here. Not now. I'm not prepared. I'm not ready. I don't have the stamina to argue with Scott right now.

…do I _ever_ have the stamina to argue with Scott? Does _anyone_ have the stamina to argue with him?

"You're soaking wet," I noted after too long, repeatedly glancing him up and down.

Because apparently, I'll talk about literally anything other than what we should be talking about.

Scott didn't move. "Yeah, well, it's raining and someone else took my car."

His eyebrows rose accusingly as he said the words. I gritted my teeth in annoyance.

"It's _our_ car," I reminded him a little more harshly than I should've. "I have as much of a right to it as you. Besides, you've got your beloved _death bike."_

Have I mentioned that I don't approve of his motorbike?

I really don't approve of him having a motorbike. Because it's stupid and it's reckless and they're dangerous and he could die. I'd rather him stick to doing impromptu barrel rolls with the jet while trying evade missile fire or long-range destructive mutant abilities; that's how much I don't like the motorbike. He absolutely should not have it and every time I find him grumbling about how Logan hijacked it once again I can't help but feel sort of relieved.

Just… putting that out there.

"And that would be why I'm wet," Scott told me dryly.

I pursed my lips. "You shouldn't ride that thing in the rain. It's not safe."

"Neither is walking into a building that's about to explode," he pointed out. "Somehow that never stopped you."

I had nothing to say to that.

I could feel his thoughts unwillingly turn to Essex, and everything that man did to him. I could feel the rage, hate, pain and confusion he felt over it all. I could feel everything as the memories blurred, as he struggled to differentiate the two situations. To differentiate between me and the man who used him like a lab rat. Struggling to tell which one is worse.

Because whatever Essex did, _I'm_ the one who betrayed him. In the end, that's worse. That's always worse.

And I hate myself for it.

"Do you hate me?"

My voice was low and hoarse, barely able to get the words out at all.

For an agonisingly long time, Scott didn't say anything. He didn't look at me. He didn't move. He just sat there in the passenger seat, perfectly still, staring aimlessly ahead at the rain that continued to pour down. I looked down, fidgeting nervously as I waited for an answer. What I expected him to say, I don't know. I'm not sure I even want to know. Maybe because I expected only the worst. After everything that's happened, what else can he possibly say?

And then;

"You know I don't," he sighed quietly, slouching a little lower in his seat before cautiously glancing over at me so he could gauge my reaction. "Jean, you _know_ that."

I let out a bitter shout of laughter and turned away from him, looking out the rain-spattered window. _Did_ I know that? I didn't feel like I knew that. I felt like I was being scolded. I felt like a child. I felt like someone who can't and won't admit it even when I know it's over.

Beside me, Scott let out a long, exhausted groan and pinched the bridge of his nose exasperatedly.

"Oh for fuck's sake… you're going to make me say it, aren't you?"

Slowly, my eyes shifted to his face, my brow furrowing slightly as I tried and failed to work out what he was even talking about. Needless to say, this was not how I thought this conversation would go. I haven't known where this was supposed to be going since he failed to open with something like _I think we should see other people._ Usually, he was so straight to the point; it wasn't like him to skirt around something. For so long, I just watched him, unsure of what to do or say. Scott pressed himself against the car's passenger seat, looking like he wanted to be absolutely anywhere but here.

I guess that makes two of us.

"Jean… what happened, that explosion… I know why you did it," he mumbled after what felt like an eternity. "I mean, it was _stupid_ and it was _idiotic_ and you obviously didn't think any of it through, but I understand why."

I didn't answer. I didn't even turn to meet his gaze. I couldn't, no matter how much I wanted to, no matter how hard I tried. I couldn't bring myself to look at him. Couldn't rid myself of the distinct impression that I didn't deserve that right.

"I'm not going to pretend it's fine," he continued quietly. "I'm not going to pretend I'm not pissed off; because I _am._ But… I get it."

"Scott-" I began awkwardly, my voice barely that of a hoarse whisper.

He shook his head. "I just- I don't want to do this anymore."

And there it is.

I'd been prepared. I'd been expecting it. I knew the blow was coming, and I'd prepared myself for it. I was ready, I had steeled myself in a desperate attempt to keep my emotions from getting the better of me.

"Jean-" Scott began, only to immediately cut off when I burst into tears.

I hated myself for it. I hated how weak it made me feel. Meanwhile, Scott pulled back, looking absolutely terrified of how quickly and easily I'd turned into a sobbing mess.

_"Jesus,_ I didn't mean- _…Jean…"_

Focus.

Stop crying and _focus on the conversation,_ Jean Grey.

God. It shouldn't be this hard.

"If you want to see other people," I began slowly, shakily, barely able to keep myself in check, "then I'm not going to stop you."

"What?" he demanded, taken aback. "Jean, what… _what the hell are you talking about?"_

"What are _you_ talking about?"

He just stared at me like I was completely insane. "Not whatever you're thinking, that's for sure."

I pulled back in surprise, blinking away the tears, not even bothering to hide the fact that I was completely lost.

"So… this _isn't_ a breakup?"

"…no? I don't think so. _Is_ this a breakup? What makes you think it's a breakup?"

"Scott, you _just said_ that you didn't want to do this anymore."

There was a silence.

An agonisingly long silence as I watched Scott critically and he scrambled to make sense of the situation and the general insane direction the conversation had gone in. Neither of us seemed to know what to say. We'd both so badly lost track of everything that neither of us knew where this was going anymore. Part of me longed to jump into his mind to figure out what the hell he was trying to say, but I restrained myself almost out of pure reflex. No telepathy. Not with Scott. Not ever again.

And then his head hit the dashboard with a quiet _thunk_ and he let out a long, exasperated groan.

"You would think," he began quietly, "that two people with permanently linked minds would be a little better at communication."

"What?"

"I don't want to do _this_ anymore," he repeated, slowly pulling back until he was upright in the seat once again. _"This,_ as in, ignoring each other and arguing when we don't. I don't want to be at odds anymore."

"So… you _don't_ hate me?"

_"Hate you?"_ he repeated incredulously. "Oh fuck _off,_ Jean! Like I've _ever_ been capable of that!"

"But you-"

"I can love you and be angry with you at the same time," he insisted indignantly.

It was the first time I'd heard him say that, I realised with a jolt. It was the first he'd ever uttered that word in the context of our relationship.

"You- …you've never said that before," I murmured, my voice hoarse.

He arched an eyebrow at that. "Said what?"

"That you love me."

_How_ did we get to _four years_ before he said that? How did I not notice before? Is it a good thing or a bad thing that he's waited until now? What do I do?

He let out a breathless chuckle and quickly returned to staring aimlessly out the window. "I didn't think I had to."

"Scott-"

"No, that sounds bad," he muttered, quickly backtracking. "I just thought – what with the telepathy and the link and everything… I guess I just figured you already knew."

"Saying it helps," I whispered.

"I _am_ starting to get that, yes," he said with a small sigh.

He thought I already knew.

_How_ did he manage to get _that_ idea in his head? Doesn't he know how easy it is for me to misread body language? How goddamn _easy_ it is to misread _thoughts?_ Emotions, in particular? How many times have I had to double check myself in case I only saw what I _wanted_ to see? I don't get the subtext. I never have. I've never needed to. He knows that. He _should_ know that.

Scott Summers, proving once again that he has no idea how to properly relate to people.

Don't think about it too much. It'll only make you mad.

"So…" I began slowly.

He looked at me oddly. "So?"

"Now that we've confirmed that we're still in a relationship… can I ask what you and Hank were doing last night?"

For so long, he just stared wordlessly, apparently in shock. Maybe it had been too drastic a subject change, but I needed to talk about something that didn't make me burst into tears.

"We were… talking," he admitted after what felt like an eternity.

I arched an eyebrow. "Talking, huh? About anything specific?"

He rolled his shoulders back and tried not to sigh. "About the explosion. And how the bombing made no sense. Also, you."

"Oh let me guess, Hank's worried about my powers overwhelming me, right?"

"Honestly Jean, you haven't exactly made a good case for yourself."

"When have I _ever_ lost control?"

He hummed thoughtfully in response, though I'm pretty sure it was meant sarcastically. "Hm. You broke three plates this morning. A few days ago, you practically caused an earthquake in front of Hank. You disintegrated a bench, too."

"That's all entirely due to the dramatic increase in power," I argued, brushing all his evidence off lightly. "So it doesn't count. Also, I'm getting better."

"What about that one time you freaked out, broke every window in the mansion, and threw me against a tree when I tried to calm you down?"

"That was-"

"Or way back when we were fifteen and you telekinetically destroyed everything in your room because of a nightmare?"

"Jesus, how do you _remember_ that?"

"You woke me up in the middle of the night via _telepathy,_ which I'd never experienced. And I'd only found out you were a mutant not too long before. Cut me some slack."

"That you remember."

"What?"

"You'd never had an experience with telepathy that you _remembered,"_ I corrected dryly.

Yes, let's bring up the subject of _Essex_ again when you've just reaffirmed that you're still in a relationship. Remind your boyfriend of the lifetime of abuse and torture and experimentation he endured without ever knowing until a couple of years ago. There's just no way that can end badly.

_Idiot._

And he _did_ remember, on some subconscious level. Because now that I'm thinking about it, now that I'm examining my memories as well as the ones of Scott's that drifted through the link, I remember the conversation we had. He'd asked me about telepathy and the potential of messing around with memories. And I, being naturally defensive, had immediately told him, point blank, that a telepath would have to have a sufficient power level and skill to do that, as well as know the intricacies of someone's mind first, to avoid doing catastrophic damage.

All true.

All criteria Essex had clearly already met.

The signs were there. They were there _that_ early on and somehow I managed to miss them all.

"Thank you so much for the reminder," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Speaking of which, how about when you lost control while _inside my mind,_ and ended up linking us permanently?"

"Not my fault."

_"How_ was that not your fault?"

"If you hadn't gone and _disappeared_ and come back with no recollection of the whole thing, I wouldn't have panicked."

"Oh, I _see._ So it's _my_ fault."

"I didn't say that!"

"Yeah, you did."

I frowned. "You know full well that's not what I- …wait a second. What didn't make sense about it?"

His head snapped back to face me, eyebrows raised curiously. "What?"

"You said the bombing didn't make sense?"

For a couple of seconds, he just stared at me, completely at a loss. Then he sighed.

"People know we're based in Westchester. The whole area has gotten a lot more mutant-friendly in recent years," he told me, dead serious.

I folded my arms. "It's not that mutant-friendly."

"That's relative. But keeping that in mind, it's logical to assume the attack was supposed to target mutants."

"Anti-mutant terror group plants bomb in mildly more tolerant area known for mutant population," I said, trying it out as if it was a newspaper headline. "Seems perfectly reasonable to me."

"Except it was placed in an empty building, on a quiet street, and the authorities were alerted to its presence there beforehand," Scott pointed out. "Almost like it was there for the spectacle, but the bombers wanted to avoid causing any actual harm."

My eyes narrowed. "Have you stopped to consider that maybe you're reading too much into it?"

"People don't blow up buildings just for _attention,"_ he argued.

_"Some_ people do."

"You and I both know that genuine anti-mutant terrorists aren't one of them," he said darkly.

"So what do your mighty sleuth powers tell you, Mr Holmes?"

"Nothing I can confirm," he admitted, before shaking his head. "Why am I talking about this? This isn't why I came here."

"Why _did_ you come after me?" I asked. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad you did, but you weren't really in the best of moods this morning."

The corners of his lips twitched in a vague attempt at a smile. "I wasn't. But Logan helped me realise something."

"Oh? And what would that be?"

"I love you too much to lose you over something this stupid," he replied simply.

I grinned. "Mm. Yes. Saying it definitely helps."

Scott smiled too. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."


	38. Chapter Thirty Eight

I'd like to say it got better after that. That everything from then on was fine and we never had a serious fight again while the X-Men continued to achieve their goal of peaceful co-existence. That it all ended happily ever after and we were all fine and good forever. I'd like to say that. I _could_ say that. It would be a _lie,_ but I _could_ say it.

But then, that would be lying.

Because it gets worse.

Oh boy, does it get _so much worse._

A car screeched as the tyres locked and it slid around a sharp corner.

_You know,_ Bobby's voice rang out through the telepathic link I'd set up between us earlier, _I wouldn't have picked the Hellfire Club as particularly anti-mutant. Since, you know, all their members happen to be mutants._

_Not _all_ of them,_ Scott quickly corrected. _Besides, they're not anti-mutant, specifically. The only thing they care about is increasing their own power base. If that means subjugating their own kind, then fine._

_Oh, because that's so much better._

_I didn't say it was better. Just different._

A girl screamed as she fled, too slow to stand a hope at escaping the car that sped towards her. It didn't take much to know she was a mutant. Whether her power would've done anything to save her, it was impossible to tell. She was new to this. New to her abilities and using them intentionally. At this point in her life, she couldn't have controlled it even if she tried.

_Hey Storm, would it kill you to give us some cover?_ Bobby asked irritably. _They're going to see us from something like six and a half miles away._

_…Storm? _Ororo responded dimly, before realising. _Oh, this is me._

_Christ, Ro, you've only been doing this for three, four years. But back to the initial request – cover? Please? Like, now?_

_And how do you suggest I do such a thing?_ came her scathing reply.

_Aren't you the weather witch? Summon some fog, or something._

_You realise that will blind us as much as everyone else._

There was a pause, as Bobby stopped to consider her point. And then;

_But Jean's up floating around up there. She can still see. She'll be fine._

Heavy sarcasm on Ororo's part now. _I was not aware fog is transparent from above._

I could almost hear Bobby's audible groan from where I was, something like two, three hundred feet in the sky above. Maybe that was because I was inside his mind, inside all their minds. I couldn't tell. It's so hard to know these days. I drift in and out of the astral plane without ever realising these days.

_Where's Logan when you need him,_ Bobby grumbled. _He'd tear all these people apart and be in and out before you can say 'snikt'._

_…snikt?_ Scott repeated, torn between sounded amused and unimpressed. _The hell does that even mean?_

_You know, that sound he makes when he pops his claws. Snikt. Bam. Dead._

_Didn't realise the X-Men advocated murder now. Must've missed that memo._

_Some people deserve it, Scott._

No one_ deserves it, Bobby,_ Scott replied, as he would, although his mind of course immediately turned to Essex and in that moment, I could feel him doubt his own words. I felt the internal conflict as he struggled to reconcile what he'd been through and what he'd been taught to believe, like all of us. He was the leader, the one who was supposed to be setting something of an example. He knew that. He just couldn't bring himself to totally believe his words, and he hated himself for it. Automatically, I began to lessen Scott's connection to the others, trying to minimise the risk of them feeling his thoughts as well. There was nothing I could do about me, we both knew that. But dammit, I should at least try. Even if I am mildly distracted by what's going on below, where they can't see.

_You really are the professor's perfect little boy scout, aren't you? _Bobby drawled, drawing me back to the conversation – if it could be called such.

Scott mentally flinched at the accusation, and I felt his mind automatically steel. That hit a nerve. An odd nerve, one I still didn't really understand, but it hit a nerve nonetheless. I'd ask him about it later, but we all know how that's going to end.

_Can we, perhaps, focus on why we're here?_

_Sure thing, boy scout._

The entire conversation went down in barely a couple of seconds – all at the speed of normal thoughts, which are faster than you'd believe. My attention was still focused on the girl, barely three feet ahead of where she was when Bobby distracted me, and the car that was quickly gaining on her.

I floated motionless in the air above, watching this all go down on the ground below. Scott, Bobby, and Ororo were being held up a couple of streets back, nowhere near close enough. I was the only one available to intervene. I would have to, sooner or later. Because I didn't have to be a telepath to feel the fear that permeated the air.

She darted into an alley.

The car followed.

She's going to die.

I know it.

Unless someone did something, unless some bizarre miracle came to her aid, she's going to die.

She can't have been more than sixteen.

Automatically, I descended.

_Jean,_ Scott's voice called, worry colouring his mental tone as my feelings bled through our link. _What's going on? What do you see?_

_Nothing I can't handle,_ I replied, landing casually in the alley as the girl breezed past me, only to lose her footing and be sent crashing to the ground. I moved until I was standing adamantly in front of her, between her and the death that was swiftly coming for her.

But I won't let it.

I've failed people before. Failed to be there to protect them when angry mobs came for them. Failed because I wasn't good enough, wasn't strong enough, wasn't powerful enough.

Not anymore.

I am power.

I am limitless.

I am _everything._

And I will never let anyone down again. Not while I have the power to stop it. Not while I live and breathe.

_Run her down!_

I didn't react to the stray thought of the driver as the car sped up, quickly closing the gap between it, me, and the girl I stood in front of in an effort to protect her. I stood absolutely still, closed my eyes and exhaled quietly. In that moment, I thought about everyone I knew who had been hurt by these people. Everyone who had been made to suffer because who and what they are.

Hank. Bobby. Warren. Logan. Ororo. Jason. Scott.

And now this girl. This girl, who can't be more than sixteen. This girl, who is barely in control of her powers and deserves so much better.

Not again, I decided.

_Never again._

"Run me down, gentlemen?" I asked, as the car suddenly halted and crumpled as though it had just run head long into an invisible brick wall just a couple of feet in front of me. "Somehow, I don't _think_ so."

The abrupt and forced stop caused one of the perpetrators to hurtle straight through the windscreen, a shower of broken glass raining down. I telekinetically caught them in mid-air, my eyes narrowing as I turned to see who would chase a young girl in the dead of night and try to kill her just for being a mutant. I saw a young man, perhaps around my age, who looked at me with terror. My lip curled, and he was slammed against the alley wall and fell to the ground, leaving a trail of blood dripping down from where he had impacted the bricks.

I turned back to the wreckage of the car, not bothering to check whether or not I'd just killed the young man or his accomplices. I found that I didn't care. If they're dead, then they won't trouble anyone again. If not, if they continue this, I will find them. And I will end them. Slowly. I've more than demonstrated my ability to do so. I would have them remember it.

"I trust you'll think twice about hounding mutants in the future," I hissed, mostly to myself, as my victims were either dead or incapable of listening.

They wouldn't survive for long without medical help.

And, you know, I _could_ be merciful. I_ could_ call an ambulance for them.

I could.

But I won't.

Why?

Because somehow, I don't feel like it. I don't feel like helping monsters masquerading in human form. After everything that's happened, all we've done for them, all the times we've saved them from annihilation only for them spit on us once the danger is passed, they don't deserve my mercy. They don't deserve _anything_ from me, or any other mutant.

Slowly, I turned to look for the girl, but she had long since disappeared. Automatically, I began to reach out telepathically, but pulled back. She's frightened. She's running. She will stay away from humans anyway. She doesn't need our help, and after what she just witnessed me do, perhaps going after her will only scare her even more.

I stood there, staring mindlessly off into the distance. I can change this. I can fix it. I can make the whole world better, safer for people like that girl. I can make it change. Force it to, if it won't change on its own.

I don't know how long I remained there, totally motionless, surrounded by carnage of my own making. It barely mattered to me. I could do worse. I could do _so much worse,_ if I ever had a mind to. The world at large had better pray I never have a reason to try.

"Jean!" I heard Scott's voice call out.

"I'm here," I answered, not bothering to turn as he ran over to me.

"What… what just happened?" he demanded, taking note of the twisted remains of the car. "Are you okay?"

I didn't move. Didn't speak. I saw no reason to.

"What _happened?"_ he demanded when I didn't answer.

I didn't look at him. "They were chasing a girl. I didn't let them."

For a moment, he said nothing, just looked from me to the wrecked, twisted pile of metal that used to be a car and finally to the unmoving form of the young man I'd thrown with possibly too much force against the wall. There was a beat of uncomfortable silence as he struggled to take in everything.

And then;

"What the _hell,_ Jean?" he just about screamed at me. "You could've just _stopped_ the car, not turned it into instant junk!"

I glared at him.

You're not serious.

You can't be _serious!_

"You didn't _hear_ them," I snarled, eyes flashing dangerously. "You don't know what they were planning to do to an innocent girl. You didn't feel her fear. _Trust me, _Scott. These… _animals_ got no more than they deserved."

"And you think no one is going to retaliate when they find out about this?" he snapped. "Do you want to throw us into a goddamn _war?"_

"We're _already _at war," I reminded him. "And _you _are already involved. You can't cling to neutrality forever, Scott. Choose a side."

"You know this is playing right into their hands. This is what they _want."_

"What else would you have me do? Show mercy to people who wouldn't consider for even a second showing it to us? We can't show weakness. Not now."

"Mercy _isn't _a weakness, Jean."

I don't have time for this. I turned heel and walked away. "It is when it's used against you."

And we can't afford weakness. Not now. It doesn't matter if Scott won't admit, that the professor won't admit it. This is war. This has always _been_ a war. There is no peaceful co-existence. It was foolish to ever believe such a thing was going to be possible. They won't let it _be_ possible. Because _we're_ the threat. _We're_ more powerful than they can ever hope to be. And that frightens them.

Good.

It _should_ frighten them.

Because this, this war, this stalemate where they act and we protect them from their own idiocy, it ends.

It ends _now._


	39. Chapter Thirty Nine

Scott worried.

It didn't take a genius, or a telepath, to work that out. He worried about me. He was angry and confused and he didn't understand how or why I did what I did and he _hated_ that. I didn't get what was so hard to understand. I didn't get how we still managed to confuse each other when our minds happened to be permanently linked.

That's just the kind of people we are, apparently. Endlessly complicated.

He let out a long, exhausted sigh and practically collapsed at the end of the bed – because we share a bedroom now, that's a thing, we're both consenting adults who've been together for years now and Professor Xavier can't ignore that – running a hand through his hair and looking stressed, like usual. He wanted to say something, to start the inevitable fight, but was struggling to work out how, and I wasn't going to help. I know exactly how the conversation is going to go. He's gone over what he wants to say a thousand times and I can't stop my mental rebuttal from drifting through the link. To which he'll build his argument in a calm and logical manner and I get irritated and I storm off to the Danger Room because I really need to hit something.

We've had this argument a million times without ever actually saying anything.

I honestly don't know what difference it makes saying out loud, but apparently, it doesn't count otherwise.

I collapsed back on the bed and let out an exhausted groan. "Out with it."

Scott didn't look at me. "I'm not having this fight. You already know everything I have to say."

And he knows a roundabout argument when he sees one.

"Yes. You're mad at me because I saved a girl's life."

"By killing someone."

I paused. "What?"

He didn't look at me. "That man you put in the hospital – he's dead. Died from his wounds last night."

I didn't move. For what felt like an eternity, I just there, watching him, trying to work out what reaction he was hoping to get by telling me this. Frankly, I wasn't shocked. He'd hit the wall hard; I was surprised he'd managed to cling to life this long.

One less asshole for the world to worry about, at least.

"He wasn't a criminal mastermind, Jean," Scott continued when I failed to reply. "He was some stupid college boy who made the mistake of believing everything he was told about mutants."

"He was going to run down a girl," I reminded him harshly.

"That doesn't give you cause to kill him."

I folded my arms and huffed angrily. _"I_ didn't kill him. Officially, he died of injuries sustained in a car crash."

"A car crash that _you_ caused."

"Details, Scott."

He didn't like that. He didn't like that at all, and I knew it. But rather than say anything, he sighed and leaned back.

"The professor's trying to find the girl, at least."

My eyebrow arched curiously. "Oh? Why?"

"Because she's a mutant new to her powers and she was almost killed. Why else would he used Cerebro to try to track someone like that down?"

"Why didn't he tell me?"

"Maybe he thought you were too invested as it is."

"That's not _his_ decision."

"Isn't it?" he contradicted quietly. "We all know what happens when you get invested."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It _means,_ you've already _murdered_ someone over this girl. Maybe he's afraid you'll end up doing something worse."

"A college _asshole_ who was going _murder a teenager!"_ I snapped back at him furiously. "How is that better?"

"It was _too far, Jean!"_ he shouted back. "Don't pretend for even a _second_ that there was no way for you to save her without killing anyone."

Oh for the _love of-_

Why does he do that? Why does he _always_ do that? Why does he have to be so freaking _perfect_ all the time? How _dare_ he talk about making difficult calls and then lecture _me_ about doing the same?

"You care so _damn much,_ don't you, Scott?" I hissed furiously. "Always needing to find the perfect solution where everyone walks away happy – _fuck _that. _Fuck_ caring. People get what they deserve."

"That isn't for _you_ to decide," he snarled.

"Oh, because the judicial system in this country is _absolutely_ going to convict someone of attempting to murder a mutant," I drawled. "Like that time a sentinel shot a kid in cold blood and _no one_ batted an eyelash."

Scott turned away, running a hand through his hair and letting out a furious sigh. "I'm not saying it's perfect. I _know_ the system's broken. But taking the law into your own hands isn't going to fix it – all it does is turn everyone against you."

But isn't that kind of what we _do?_ Isn't taking the law into our own hands kind of the _point?_ The system has failed us, society has failed us, the entire damn _world_ has completely and utterly failed mutants as a whole since we first began to emerge. We all know that. So, isn't that exactly why we do what we do? Police ourselves, justly and fairly, because no one else is doing it? Because no one else looks at us and sees human beings?

"What do you think we _are,_ Scott?" I shot back coldly. "What do you think we're _doing here,_ if we're not vigilantes?"

His jaw tightened at my question. "We don't _kill people,_ Jean."

_"You_ don't kill people," I corrected harshly. "Because you're too busy being preoccupied with people's opinions to do the right thing."

"Murder _isn't_ the right thing!" he argued, still refusing to be swayed.

I don't know why I'm surprised.

Why am I surprised?

I'm not surprised.

"What if it was Essex?" I challenged. "What if it was someone so evil and reprehensible that they tortured children? What if you could stop others from going through what you did? Would it be the right thing then?"

His lip curled. "That's _not the point."_

"Isn't it?"

_"No,_ it's _not,"_ he ground out furiously. "You don't get to decide who lives and dies, Jean. _None _of us do."

I can't believe this. I can't _believe _this! Of _all_ the things for him to be passionate about, to hold sacred, and it's that. Some stupid, idiotic, totally nonsensical _thou shalt not kill_ rule. What if people are assholes? What if you're saving more lives by killing someone than you would if you let them go? There has to be exceptions to the rule. There _has_ to be. Some people don't deserve mercy. Some people don't deserve to _live._

With an incoherent growl, I pushed myself off the bed and headed for the door.

"I'm going out," I announced.

Scott didn't look up. "Don't let me stop you."

I rolled my eyes dramatically and shook my head, before exiting and slamming the door shut behind me.

I'm over this. I am _so_ over this. I'm over arguing, over caring, over trying to do everyone right all the time. I can't _be_ that person. I can't be the perfect, all-loving hero that rescues cats from trees and never does wrong. There's too much pressure. Too much to think about it. Too much effort for people who don't deserve it. People who will never deserve it. We're all better off without them.

The world doesn't change on its own. You want things to change, you have to _make_ them change. Fight and threaten and yell and scream until people finally start taking you seriously. Trust people and they'll betray you. Control people and they'll resist you. Frighten people and they'll fight you.

What other option _is_ there?

There was a sudden, sharp pain in my head the instant the thought crossed my mind. I let out a quiet gasp and staggered, hand flying to my temple as I tried to work out if I was being telepathically hailed, which is usually the case when this happens.

And sure enough;

_Jean,_ I heard Professor Xavier's voice call. _Please see me when you have the time._

I groaned. _Understood, professor._

I didn't bother to add anything more to the conversation. Scott would've heard it, and I was in loathe to give him any more ammunition to use against me. He's got plenty already.

So instead, I made my way along the hall, down the stairs, and into the main foyer of the mansion. Which was deserted, of course. The school was officially on holidays, so pretty much the entire student body had vacated, save for a few who didn't have homes to return to. Which is a nice way of saying that their families wouldn't _let_ them return. Luckily, the school stays open for them. I don't think Professor Xavier could live with himself otherwise.

Still. None of them are here. Why would they be? It's a nice day. The only people who prefer to stay in on days like this are Scott and maybe _vampires._ Vampires, at least, might lament missing out on such glorious sunshine. Scott just grunts about having work to do.

"Jeannie."

I spun on my heels to locate the speaker, only to find myself right into from Logan, who was looking at me with a now familiar lop-sided grin. Immediately I felt the heat rush to my face and I coughed awkwardly and stepped back, trying to give him some room.

"Logan," I called his name breathlessly. "Hey. Hi. Fancy seeing you here."

"Was about to say the same thing. What's up?"

I shook my head and brushed a stray lock of hair out of my face. "It's nothing. Scott's just being a dick."

As per usual.

He laughed. "When is Cyke _not_ being a dick? You wanna talk about it?"

I moved away, throwing my hands up into the air in exasperation. "He just doesn't _get_ it. He's too caught up in doing right by literally everyone that he can't understand that sometimes the shittier people should be removed for the sake of everyone else."

"I getcha," he replied smoothly, before gesturing at the door. "Come on."

I whirled around to face him, eye wide and incredulous. "Come on? Come where? Logan?"

"Let's get out here," he told me cheerfully. "Might help you take a load off."

The grin was back as he pulled open the door and waited patiently for me as I just stared vacantly at him, not quite sure what to do. Then, after what felt like an eternity, I smiled.

"Yeah, okay," I said as I moved towards him, out the door and outside. "Thanks, Logan."

Slowly, he eased the door shut behind me. "Anything for you, Jeannie."


End file.
